The Pursuit of Happiness
by woodbyne
Summary: Alfred and Matthew built their company from Alfred's garage up. When Matt's safety net breaks and his secret comes out, will their fragile happiness crumble, too? Can Alfred go against his very nature to fix what he didn't even know he broke? Am/Can Fr/UK
1. False Cheer

**My first America/Canada! I mean, I written about them before but I've never shipped them seriously in a story before. And I ship these guys like the Royal Navy. Lyrics are **Pursuit Of Happiness** by Kid Cudi. **

_Tell Me What You Know About Dreamin' Dreamin'  
You Don't Really Know About Nothin' Nothin'  
Tell Me What You Know About Them Night Terrors Every Night  
5 Am Cold Sweats Wakin' Up To The Skies  
Tell Me What You Know About Dreams; Dreams  
Tell Me What You Know About Night Terrors; Nothin'  
You Don't Really Care About The Trials Of Tomorrow  
Rather Lay Awake In A Path Full Of Sorrow_

Francis had been waiting for him when he got home, sitting on the edge of the couch, bags packed.

"Francis?" Matthew had asked, wracking his brains to try and figure out where the other was supposed to be going. He was so good at organisation. He shouldn't have forgotten this.

"Matthieu," the Frenchman nodded. Strain was evident in his voice, as though he was keeping something back, and the Canadian felt the bottom drop out of his world.

"Francis, please. I know I haven't been around much lately, but please, we can make this work…" reduced to begging so easily. Didn't he have any shame?

"I've been having an affair. Cher… This isn't going to work. You have your love, and I have mine."

"An- an- an -" he could barely finish the question. There wasn't enough air in his lungs to ask it. An affair? Francis had been _cheating_ on him? With _who_? "How long?" he choked out.

"Just over a year now,"

Why did five words feel like he was being disembowelled? A year? He'd had the wool over his eyes for over a year. How had he not seen the signs?

"You were too busy with _him_," of course Francis would see the question in his eyes. The bitterness in the Frenchman's tone was also unsurprising. He's always expressed distaste for Matthew's professional enthusiasm.

He didn't know when he'd sat down, or when Francis had knelt in front of him, but he was aware of something warm and round being pressed into his hand. Tired indigo eyes stared, barely comprehendingly at the thin silver band and the diamond it held. He looked to the Frenchman, who was smiling sadly.

"Then there's really nothing I can do?"

"_Non_," Francis pushed the red-blond hair back from the Canadian's forehead, kissing him briefly before picking up his suitcase and walking out the door.

~====o)0(o====~

"You have a twelve-thirty with R&D about the new processor model – not that you haven't explained it to them at least a dozen times. Where do you find these dimwits and why do you hire them? Even I understand the concept by now. Lunch at one-thirty with the board of trustees, a proper lunch at two-thirty. At three, PR wants a word about the new advertising campaign – they were saying something about false advertising, but that's not really my area of expertise, I'm just a PA, I only checked their stupid brief three times. And you have an appointment with your new lady friend at seven-thirty at the Piazza. I'll remind you again later, but don't forget that she's a vegetarian, she loves dogs and her name is Sarah," Matthew said in a mildly bored tone of voice as his index finger skimmed down the schedule in the page-a-day planner that he kept with him at all times. His job was unfortunately one that required constant attention. That was why he was now single, the faint tan line where his engagement-ring used to be tingling unpleasantly. Francis had known. He just hadn't said anything, Matt was sure of it.

"You're adding pissy foot-notes to my day again, what's up?" Asked Alfred F Jones, the founder of Hero Corp. Institute of Technological Advancement (PTY LTD), not even bothering to look at the man in front of him. Alfred had his cowboy-booted feet propped up on the desk (and a mound of undone paperwork), his chair tipped back and his hands behind his head, eyes closed. On his desk was a box of glazed doughnuts and a to-go cup of coffee. So that meant that one person out of the two of them had gotten laid last night and it wasn't Matthew.

"Am I?" he asked, not paying attention, making notes in the planner as he spoke. He could predict already that he was going to swap the meetings with PR and R&D just to irritate them, and give R&D more time to think through what he'd said the last time, just in case they figured it out and he suddenly had his afternoon cleared. He was also going to ditch Sarah – too aggressive for Alfred's tastes, plus he loved red meat and cats – and replace her with the sweet, vaguely insipid and large-breasted Yekaterina Braginskaya. She was a Ukrainian model notarised by her long legs, tiny waist and a phenomenal set of knockers – 100% real. "I got rather spectacularly dumped last night, so I suppose that's why. Shall I see if Yekaterina's available or did you have someone else in mind?"

"No, Katy'll do nicely. Really? I didn't know you were seeing anyone," the American mused. It wasn't as though Alfred was a bad boss, just unobservant and forgetful. At 26, he was surprisingly high up in the world, managing his own corporation. He'd started out building computers in his room with his best friend – who was now stealing one of the doughnuts out of the box – cinnamon flavoured – and pencilling in a tentative hour of pre-date prep. That usually consisted of stroking Alfred's ego until he purred and reminding him of what was and was not acceptable dinner-time conversation with whomever he was seeing. Especially when, like now, his date could practically be classed as international relations.

"Mmhmmm~" the Canadian hummed, his mouth full of deep-fried, spiced goodness, "Engaged. You came to the party last spring." Add after that a melancholy drink by himself and the possibility of having to find Alfred in the small hours and that was the day all planned out; nice and neat.

"Oh, right. I wondered what that was about. The French dude, right? You'll do better next time," Alfred reassured, patting down his pockets for his cell phone, which had just started ringing.

"I'd like to see how," Matt snorted derisively, deftly catching the phone that was about to ring its way off the polished table-top and depositing it in front of his 'employer' as he snapped the day-planner shut, "Will that be all, sir?"

"Yeah, thanks, could you send the head of accounting in? I need to check some numbers with him," Alfred muttered distractedly, answering the phone – press or a lady friend, judging by the smooth tone – "Alfred F Jones, speaking, how can I make your tomorrow brighter?" it was hard to see through all that false cheer, "Uh-huh. Yup. Yes, indeed-y. I'll get right on it. Oh, hang on a tick," he pressed the device into his shoulder to muffle the sound, "Mattie, could you do me a whopper of a favour and move my 10am to next week and slot in Veronica Woo? From _The Times_, and could you check her out, too?" Why did he always wear that pleading expression, as though he thought Matthew wasn't going to do exactly as he was asked?

"Sure thing, sir."

"Oh, and Mattie?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Why did he leave you?"

"I'm already married to my job, sir," Matthew grinned as he walked towards his own office with his list of tasks for that day carefully written down in his own messy short-hand. He had a lot of false-cheer, too. He didn't see Alfred frown as he returned the phone to his ear.

"Uh-huh. Yup. That'll be just great. See you then. Buh-bye, now."

**Continue? Yes? No? Frankly My Dear, I Don't Give A Damn?  
Reviews are love!**


	2. Problem Solved

**Zenna95, anon, Chishio chuudoku, my darling Germany, themagnificent ME, QueenOfThePirates, MattieCanada, Lady Queria, Hinata28h, Crimson Tomato, apporu and Shizuka Aralia; thank you guys so much for the encouragement, you really know how to make me happy. **

The two blonds sat side by side at the bar, matching each other drink-for drink without realising it at all. After a while, Matthew looked across at the man besides him, a tipsily concerned expression on his face.

"You're going to drink yourself into an early grave like that, eh," he said, just a little more loudly than he would usually have. The other blond looked up in surprise,

"I have good reason. Besides, it's not like you're faring any better."

"I have a reason, too," Matt said, a childish pout on his liquor flavoured lips. He sucked on them, the burning flavour of alcohol heavy on his tongue.

"Lad, I just found out that I was the other man for over a year. I ended someone's engagement," the stranger said glumly, searching for a deeper meaning in the beer foam at the bottom of his glass before ordering another, "I really love him though. Bloody idiot," a melancholy laugh escaped him, his eyes still downcast, and the Canadian wasn't sure whether he was talking to him or about his lover.

"Poor bastard," Matt patted the man clumsily on the back, "Same thing. Sort of. I just got left for the other man. I thought we were happy. But," he sighed, "I guess not."

Now Arthur, who was drinking beer and nothing as strong as the whiskey Matthew was nursing, was a lot more sober, despite that he had drunk more than his Canadian counterpart. He looked appraisingly at the man beside him. He'd just broken off someone's engagement and this man had just been dumped… What were the odds that they were drinking about the same person? Nah.

"I think he figured it out," Matthew continued, completely oblivious and fast leaving tipsy behind and heading for drunk. As opposed to the Brit, who was steadily sobering up.

"Figured what out?" Arthur asked, darkly curious. If this really was the man that Francis had left for him, how did he feel about it? Why had he been unhappy?

"M'in love with someone else," he sighed morosely. "Francis was always good at telling that kind of thing. M'happy f'him and his bit on the side."

Well, shit. It was the same guy.

But, wait. What?

"You are?" asked an incredulous Arthur. Was that why? He'd always wondered why the Frenchman had been so reluctant to go on a date with him. He'd thought it was just because his default first impression was 'arsehole'.

"Yup," another shot splashed down his throat, "My whole life, probably. Hit the trifecta, too. Smart, sweet and good looking. On top of that he's my best friend, my boss and straight. I've never told anyone that before."

The Englishman whistled his sympathy.

Matthew couldn't help it. It was such a relief to say it out loud. He was in love with Alfred F Jones. Ever since he was a kid, he'd been organising Alfred's life, making sure that the little shit didn't get himself into more trouble than he could handle. It had become as natural for the Canadian to write down Alfred's homework as it was to write down his own. He'd kept Alfred in his inept brilliance from failing every single class they attended. He'd helped him build his first computer from scratch. Alfred had been the first person he had told he was gay. And his first kiss. That was a sweet memory.

"_Al," the fifteen-year-old Matthew – all elbows, knees, hands and feet - muttered, staring fixedly at the ground, hiding behind his hair as he stood watching his best friend race a remote-controlled car around the yard, "I've got something I need to tell you."_

"_Yeah, what is it?" The American said, tongue sticking out from between his teeth as he focused on the particularly tricky corner he was trying to skid around at high speed. He'd built the car himself, and was trying to fine tune the controls. _

"_I think I'm gay," he murmured, not daring to look at his friend. Adding the words 'for you' on the end of that sentence would probably be a bit much for him just then. Alfred aced the corner, hit the brakes and turned to face his friend, _

"_You _think_? You mean you're not sure?" he asked, uncharacteristically serious. _

"_Well, I don't know, I mean, I've never kissed a guy before," he shrugged. He was interested in men, sure. He thought they were more attractive than women. But how was he supposed to tell if he didn't know what it was like to be with one? Surely? At least that's what his teenage mind told him. _

"_Then kiss a guy," Al shrugged, giving him a sincere, lazy grin that made the Canadian's heart thud loudly in his chest. _

"_What? I can just go around kissing people! Even if I had the nerve, I'd get called a slut!" he protested, waving his hands around to fend off the suggestion. _

"_Then kiss me. I'm a guy, and I'm not going to call you a slut," Alfred had privately thought that the fact that Matthew was worried about being called a slut was tangible proof that he was bent as a six-on-the-Kinsey dollar coin, but wasn't going to share that aloud. He figured that it would be fine to kiss Matt. They were best friends after all, and Alfred really had no problem if he was gay. And if he could help his bro out, then what was a little tonsil hockey between friends? Alfred had never really been one to think about the consequences of his actions. _

"_I- What? Mmph!" Matthew's objections were cut off by Alfred taking his face in his hands and kissing him full on the lips. Alfred's lips were warm and soft. A little cracked where he sucked on the bottom one when he was thinking, and a little damp from where his tongue had touched them while he was concentrating. Matt's eyes had closed and he tentatively kissed back, happiness singing in his veins. After a moment that the Canadian wished had never ended, they broke apart, _

"_Still feel gay?" Alfred had chuckled, cheeks a little flushed. _

"_Yeah," Matt had answered breathily. The American had let him go and turned back to his model car, a pleased grin on his face. He'd helped Mattie out. He was proud of himself. _

"_Problem solved!" he had laughed. _

"Yeah," Matt sighed bitterly, gulping at his stinging drink faster than he should have, "Problem solved."


	3. Motor Mouth

**Zenna95, Shizuka Aralia, Hinata28h, QueenOfThePirates, my darling, hetarynnies and GreyMoth; thank you all so much for your support!**

Alfred Jones was the face of the company he had created with Matthew – not only his PA, but also the co-founder. The American made no secret of the fact that without Matt by his side, he'd run his business into the ground in two days flat. The Canadian ran the accounts and the business deals, and Alfred sold them and came up with the products.

As the more people-oriented of the pair, it was a given that Alfred was charismatic. He could entertain people for hours and hours at a time with the most mundane anecdotes and swing people to his way of thinking with only one conversation. He was one of those people that it was impossible not to smile with. He also had a regular motor-mouth. And when something was on his mind, he generally had a hard time not talking about it.

At this moment, Matthew was on his mind. The American may not have paid a lot of attention to his best friend's relationships – hell, he could barely keep a handle on his own – but he'd have to be a complete fucking idiot not to notice that his best friend – the man who he had known since age one and had been able to read like a book ever since he had learnt to read – was seriously messed up about being dumped by his fiancé. That extra watt to his smile, that super-nice and, über-pleasant tone to his voice; they were covering a quivering lip and the desire to break down and cry. Alfred had only seen that look a few times before. The two most prominent times were when his parents got divorced and his mother moved back up to Canada. And the time his father had insisted he spend a year in a Canadian school. That had been painful for both of them, but Alfred's impulsive nature, natural smarts and charisma got him a scholarship a said school as a boarder and Matt had calmed down a lot. He American knew that Matthew had been afraid of being forgotten. Out of sight, out of mind. But that wasn't going to happen. Like the golden Labrador he resembled in so many other aspects of his life, Al was loyal.

But back to that little habit he had of talking about whatever was on his mind.

Yekaterina was a nice girl. Brought up in rural Ukraine, she was honest and homely, despite her stellar good looks. And she liked Alfred, really she did. He was entertaining and funny, he (Matthew) always sent her flowers after they went out. She had a bit of a thing for the Canadian, but he was quite assuredly queer, so they were simply friends.

Alfred held the door open for her, he recommended a dish that she ended up loving. He was polite to the waiter, he made all the right signals with his body to show that he was interested in her. A perfect gentleman. The only problem was that he wouldn't shut up. About Matthew.

"So, Katy, how've you been? Oh, really? That's fantastic. Matt said that you'd been really busy lately. I'm glad you found the time to come out with me. Matt knows how much I enjoy our time together. Yours and mine, I mean, not mine and Matt's, but I enjoy that too. He's my best friend. Hey, d'you think we're going out? I mean, officially? No? That's okay, then. I'm a little scared of being in a relationship to be honest. Not because I'm afraid of commitment. Pfsht, gosh, no. I just don't like the idea of someone getting bored of being with me. I mean, that's a real blow to the ego, isn't it? Getting dumped. And Poor Mattie just got dumped hard. By his fiancé. Poor guy. Shame. We should have a guys night out, don't you think? Or you and he could do one of those lunches you like so much. My treat.

"I'm worried about him, you know. He's my best friend. And he's taking it way too calmly. He's going to explode. He does that you know. He bottles up all his anger and then when he just can't take it anymore, he explodes. It's like an atom bomb going off. I was there the last time it happened. About, oh, hmmm. Let me think. It was about five years back? There'd been some tough shit going on and he was under a lot of stress, he was just finishing up his degree. And then one day I put my cola on the table instead of the coaster. It was incredible. I don't think anyone else has ever seen him that mad. He went off at me for almost an hour about common courtesy. I know half of it wasn't actually aimed at me, but it was still really scary. Eventually he calmed down, said, 'My throat hurts,' and ate a cough drop. He apologised later, but still.

"Did you like your meal? I'm so glad. Mattie recommended it. He always knows what's good to eat. I have no idea how he does it all, really. That little day-planner of his has everything in it. My life and his. He's amazing, I swear. If someone in the building has a cold, he knows about and sends them a Get Well Soon card. Same for birthdays, babies and engagements. I heard him congratulating one of the cleaning staff on his son's winning goal in a kids soccer match. How nice is he, really? I mean, he does the same to you, doesn't he? He knows what kinds of flowers you like, what kinds of food, he'll give you a hug, ask if that dress is new… It is, isn't it? I knew it, it looks great on you. No really, I mean it. You're positively radiant this evening. Not that you aren't always gorgeous. Would you like dessert? Watching your figure? Don't be ridiculous! How could you possibly need to watch your figure when you have such a beautiful body? One little piece of cake? Come on~ You know you want it~ I know for a fact that this place has some great desserts. Matt comes here all the time and that must mean that they're good. He has one heck of a sweet tooth. You're not hungry? That's okay, I'll drive you home. Goodnight."

As Alfred pulled away from the drive of Yekaterina's home, there was a faint beeping from his pocket that signalled a text message. Glancing around, he pulled out his phone and checked.

**Mattie:**

**My name is Arthur Kirkland. Your friend is drunk, but safe. I'm close to a friend of his. I'm going to drop him off at home. He'll have a hangover in the morning, please come and check on him**.

No, poor Mattie wasn't taking this well.


	4. Songs About Rainbows

**Greymoth, Zenna95, my darling Germany, Frost in Flanders Field, and Hinata29h, thank you so much for your support! Guess who did some typing this afternoon?**

**Finally posting something that woodsy hasn't read. Love ya, Mango! Oh. Lyrics:  
Sugar – Kidd Rock  
Rainbow Connection –The Muppets**

_Why are there so many songs about rainbows?  
And what's on the other side?  
Rainbows are visions, but only illusions  
And rainbows have nothing to hide._

Arthur had a little ritual when he came home, every time it was the same pattern, the same rhythm. He toed his shoes off and nudged them behind the door with the side of his foot. Now there were two pairs of shoes there, and he smiled at the black and brown leather, polished and sitting side-by side. Then came the keys, fished out of his pocket and hung on their hook, right beside the spare set, which had a little Eiffel Tower keychain dangling from them. His mobile phone was set on the hallstand a bricklike little Nokia right next to a flashy blueberry, or whatever they were called (as long as it could receive calls, Arthur was happy with his). Next was his coat; thick and woollen, he shrugged out of it and hung it on the coat rack, right beside the neat, pinstriped black blazer.

This felt like a home rather than a house. That was what having Francis living with him felt like, Arthur realised when he got home from dropping Matthew off at his swanky loft apartment. Matthew's place felt… it felt empty. Lonely. Love didn't live there as it did here. He'd gotten that impression when he went there with Francis as well. He felt a little bit ashamed now that he saw the man he'd cuckolded – so young and so sad. And they'd had sex in his bed.

There was a mirror on the hallstand, and the Englishman stared at his reflection for a moment; Matthew was so very young by comparison. Arthur had never really considered himself as old, though he supposed that he was getting on a bit. He'd been a bit of a punk in his youth (he still had more holes in his skin than a colander) but that was no longer who he was. He wasn't that wild any more. A well respected privateer perhaps? He did rather fancy himself a pirate. Besides, Francis was a good few years older than he was anyhow – not that the Frenchman looked it – so they were a better match age-wise than Francis and Matthew had ever been.

It took Arthur a moment to realise that he was jealous of a boy who he should be feeling sorry for. Arthur had a home; Matthew had a house. Arthur had Francis; Matthew had no-one. Arthur was loved and in love; Matthew was in unrequited love that didn't sound like it was going to happen ever.

There were warm, delicious smells wafting from the kitchen and the soft sound of some unidentified French crooner playing softly in the other room. The Englishman checked his watch; it was half-past midnight.

The crooner turned out to be Francis singing along to an orchestral CD while he kneaded some kind of dough. It was a pleasant sight; his lover swaying and humming around the kitchen making what looked like bread while he went. The singing was rather pleasant as well.

"You didn't have to wait up for me," he said quietly, leaning against the doorframe. Francis stopped singing, and silence rushed in oppressively to fill the vacuum that song had left in its wake.

"You were so angry when you left… I thought it might be best," Francis said quietly, "I'm sorry for using your kitchen without your permission; I bake when I'm upset," the Frenchman made a vague gesture towards the rest of the room, where trays of biscuits, scones and even one of Danish pastries as sat cooling.

"It's fine. It's not as if I ever use it. It makes this place feel like home," seeing his French lover's abashed smile was worth the embarrassment of saying something so sickeningly romantic – it always was; every smile on Francis' lips that he was the cause of lit Arthur's world like ten thousand shining suns. One day, he would tell him that.

"By the way," he continued, trying to sound nonchalant and failing quite laughably, "I ran into Matthew at the bar." It hurt. He wasn't expecting that. He wasn't expecting it to hurt when Francis' attention peaked visibly. When he looked at Arthur with badly disguised curiosity, obviously trying to think of a way to ask how that _boy_ was doing. The venom in his thoughts surprised him.

"Oh?" Francis' feigned nonchalance was worse than his, and that hurt, too. With divided attention the Frenchman picked up a knife and a packet of treacle sugar, opening it and his finger in his finger in his distraction. A quiet cloud of French curses filled the air, and Arthur sighed, fetching a first-air box from under the sink. Donning a pair of rubber gloves, he wiped up the blood with a tuft of cotton wool, discarding that before another tuft dipped in orange disinfectant cleaned the cut.

"Just a little scratch," the Englishman murmured, fussing over the sticking plaster as he wrapped it around Francis' finger, bringing the wounded digit to his lips, kissing it, "There, all better."

Francis sighed happily, his heart fluttering a little in his chest as he wondered if Arthur could mend his broken heart so well – not that he wasn't well on his way. Picking up the sugar, the elder blond sprinkled it generously over the thin disk of dough, adding chopped nuts, chocolate and orange rind before rolling it into a cigar – careful not to get his plaster dirty.

Arthur's sigh was less happy; this silence was his lover waiting for an answer that he didn't want to give, "He didn't take it too well. He was completely sloshed by the time I took him home. I texted the first person under his friends list and told them that he'd have a hangover. He's happy for us, and he's in love with someone else."

The sharp hiss that escaped Francis made the Englishman jump, patting his lover's arms worriedly, his mind immediately leaping to the assumption of 'hurt'. He dropped his hands when he realised it wasn't a hurt he could kiss better.

How Arthur wished he could make Francis forget all about Matthew. He wanted to scream at the top of his lungs, 'He didn't love you! Not the way I do! Look at me, please. Let me love you the way he should have.' Instead a weary exhalation carried the words; "You still love him."

The crippling reality hurt all the more when it was cemented by Francis' melancholy words, "Of course I do. I wouldn't have agreed to marry him if I didn't love him." Arthur had never hated the present tense so much. But the Frenchman's blithe continuation soothed his hurt heart, "But I would never have left him for you if I didn't love you more."

~====o)0(o====~

"Wakey-wakey, sunshine," Alfred murmured, gently shaking Matthew's shoulder to wake him. The American's cheeky sense of humour meant that this wasn't his favourite way to rouse someone with a hangover, but the last time he'd tried the usual tricks with Matthew, he'd had to have said, still hung-over and rather vindictive Canadian reset his nose. Not fun.

"Mmmmngh," the Canadian groaned, rolling over and feeling the full weight of his own nausea, the sunlight now streaming through his windows and his splitting headache.

"C'mon Mattie," the American said, slightly louder, making the Canadian beneath the covers cringe, "Up and at em. You go have a shower and I'll fix you some breakfast, okay?" Matthew nodded blearily, tumbling out of bed in yesterday's clothes and heading for the bathroom and a Tylenol.

Once he'd swallowed what was probably more than the recommended daily allowance of headache tablets and enough water to drown an above-average sized Blue Whale, the Canadian stripped off and stepped into the shower, turning the hot tap on full and slowly adding cold. Now his head was clear, his skin was red and though his stomach was still rebelling, he felt much better. And once that was done, his closet shower-diva came out.

"_Hard to remember if anything was real, Cold like December and I don't like how that feels. I been living a long time I been giving a long time too and I can't believe I wasted so much time on you_," he crooned as he lathered his hair; singing in the shower was always cathartic. "_But time has brought me back around; Back around to me! And I feel so free, Yeah_!

"_Now who's gonna give me some sugar tonight? Sugar tonight? Sugar tonight_?" the loofah acted as a microphone as the chorus rolled around, and aside from the nagging question of who _was_ going to give him sugar that night, it was all going pretty well until Alfred kicked in with the second verse,

"_Hot like a toti! Smooth like Mondovi! Around the way they call me Bathroom Bobby! Sugar is my hobby and my greatest joy, and that's why they call me "cowboy_"~!" the American drawled happily, his voice drifting through the round, glass-less window high in the wall of the bathroom. The point of it was to let the steam out, but it had the dual function of embarrassing Matthew. Still, he couldn't stop a thrill of hope from spiking his veins. It had sounded almost as if Alfred was answering his question. But he wasn't.

"I'm in the _shower_, Al!" he yelled indignantly at the window.

"And I'm in the kitchen, Matt, but I can still hear you!" was the cheery answer.

Putting his debut on Canadian Idol out of his head, Matthew focused on the mindless chore of washing up. Now the questions started coming. How long had Alfred been there? Had he said anything he'd regret? Was he allowed to break down and cry now, or should he do that once Alfred left. Twenty minutes seemed permissible, then there were things that needed to be done – it was a Saturday, about.. 11AM? That meant that the factories would still be having their Friday, so he could check the production schedule and see how that was going…

Or he could take the weekend off and relax with his best friend. But that was dangerous. Relaxing meant letting his guard down, letting his guard down meant feeling and feeling meant loving and love _hurt_. That would mean an afternoon of biting back the desire to wind their fingers together, pretending he wasn't staring and physically stopping himself from just leaning over and kissing Alfred to see if it would feel the same as it did when they were kids.

But if he could be by Alfred's side then surely it wouldn't be so bad. A playful hug? It couldn't hurt that much, could it? Matthew knew from bitter experience exactly how much it could hurt. It would be a constant mix of joy at seeing Alfred so happy and misery because they weren't together the way he wished they were. And of course, there was the inevitable emptiness he would feel when Alfred left. The hollow ache that filled his entire being.

Wrestling his hangover-clumsy body into a tee shirt and a pair of jeans, Matthew wandered into the kitchen to the smell of the Alfred's famous hangover breakfast. It would probably raise your cholesterol level just to look at it, but it couldn't be denied that Alfred F. Jones made the best hangover breakfasts ever, even if Matt's stomach did lurch at the prospect of food.

The man himself was still standing over the stove, frying what smelt like eggs. _Wouldn't it be nice_, the Canadian asked himself dreamily, _to walk over there and wrap my arms around his waist? I could kiss him on the cheek and rest my head on those strong shoulders of his. We could laugh and joke and eat together and everything would be white picket fences and 2.5 adopted kids_.

"Jeez, Mattie, you're zoned!" Alfred laughed, that open smiling face making the Canadian's lips turn up at the corners even as his heart ached. Matthew laughed along, succeeding in fighting down the urge to hug the American close.

"Yeah, I guess I am," he shrugged and the object of his unrequited desires steered him to his seat with a hand on his shoulders. What if it were like this every morning (except without the hangover)? What if they could wake up and laugh together? What if Alfred wasn't as straight as an I-beam?

"How did you know?" he asked, sitting down and tucking in, knowing that this and the cup of black gold – coffee – at his elbow would settle his stomach and set him straight for the rest of the day.

"Some dude brought you home last night and texted me that you'd have a hangover," last night's clothes, fully dressed, ass felt fine. Nope, no sex for him. Matthew nodded his understanding and Al let him finish eating undisturbed.

The morning turned into afternoon and afternoon turned into evening, and the two of them just hung around Mattie's apartment, chatting, laughing, lying on each other and playing Xbox. Alfred won.

Alfred excused himself When Matthew started yawning.

"Mattie," he said, halfway out the door, sky-blue eyes wide and honest, "You know you can talk to me, right? I'll always be here to help you with any problem."

"Thanks, Al, that means a lot." _You are the problem_.

"D'you need a hug?" those strong arms opened wide, and Matthew couldn't help but step into the comforting embrace. Alfred gave the best hugs. Warm and all-encompassing. As long as Alfred held him, he would be safe, warm and happy. But too soon the fraternal hug ended and with a jaunty wave, the sun to Matthew's moon vanished below the horizon, leaving him alone in the ringing emptiness of his heartbreak.

_Who said that every wish would be heard and answered?  
When wished on the morning star?  
Somebody thought of it, and someone believed it,  
Look what it's done so far._


	5. Giving Up

**Zenna95, my dearest Germany, Rani of KuchNahi, my beloved QueenOfThePirates and LadyQueria.**

**There are five people reviewing this; one for ever one hundred and ten people reading it  
But the five of you make it worth my while.**

**Thanks.  
Lyrics: I Won't Give Up – Jason Mraz**

_I won't give up on us  
Even if the skies get rough  
I'm giving you all my love  
Still looking up  
Still looking up  
I won't give up on us  
God know, I'm tough enough  
We've got a lot to love  
God knows, we're worth it._

Despite his exhaustion, Matthew couldn't get to sleep that night. He simply lay on his bed, his eyes burning. Pressure built, the headache of unshed tears throbbing in his temples. His chest ached with want of Alfred. Stupid, stupid, stupid! He should just have done his work and shooed Al home like a good boy. How stupid could he get? Matthew knew full well how much it could hurt to be with Alfred like that and have him go when all he wanted was that brilliant idiot in his arms, warm and laughing the way he always was.

But no. Instead of putting himself out of his misery, he chose to subject himself to the pain of helping Alfred juggle his girlfriends. He watched them kiss and cuddle with bitter envy in his heart. He organised romantic dates, found out their habits and their favourite flowers, forged Alfred's handwriting on thoughtful cards, all the while hoping that she wouldn't fall for the American's guileless charm the way he had. Every time he crossed his fingers and hoped against hope that she wouldn't be the southern belle his friend was dreaming of. Hoping that she wouldn't make Alfred's eyes light up when he saw her. Hoping that he didn't make her smile the way he made Matthew smile. Hoping that he wouldn't be best man at their wedding. That he wasn't going to be the godfather to a child with Alfred's wide blue eyes and messy blond hair. There were so many things that Matthew hoped he wouldn't have to do, and he couldn't stop his cruel imagination from running through scenario after scenario.

He could picture Alfred, nervously tugging at his collar while he ran through what he would say when he proposed to this nameless girl. Matthew would inevitably end up making the reservations at some fancy restaurant or other – where would he like Al to propose to him? Under the stars, somewhere quiet and romantic. That's the kind of place he would pick –and tying the American's bowtie, correcting his diction and hoping that she made Alfred happy.

Alfred deserved more than anything to be happy.

So Matt had been cruel to Francis. Francis deserved to be loved too. He deserved a chance to be truly happy after the way Matthew had had used them. He knew that. He knew that he had found someone that he had hoped that he could maybe one day grow to love the way he loved Alfred and he had tried to tie him down and keep him forever, pinned like a pretty butterfly to a board. Wings spread but never to fly. That wasn't Francis at all, the Canadian knew his lover well enough to know that the Frenchman was a free spirit. He needed to fly.

But Alfred? Alfred needed to soar. Like an eagle. Butterflies and eagles. Francis flit transcendentally through life, butterfly wings an unnoticed against his skin. Alfred was wild; he would come close enough to be admired, but never allowed himself to be tamed.

So he was cruel to Francis. Matthew had rather hoped that Francis would stay with him and hold him when he was missing Alfred. Sometimes, late at night when he couldn't sleep, he hand curled himself around the Frenchman and pretended that it was the American's warm body that was in his. His heartbeat would slow and he would fall asleep, his lips against Francis' shoulder.

Matthew had hoped that he wouldn't grow into lonely uncle Mattie, that falsely smiling face in the corner of Alfred's family photographs. He could see that square, blockish hand – as deliberate and honest as its author – forming the words, 'The family and Matt. Christmas 2017'. As much as Matthew loved Alfred, he didn't think that he could bear to be a family add on for the rest of his life. No. He couldn't bare that.

Tears welled in his eyes, and he wished again for Francis. Francis who would stroke his hair and murmur soothing bullshit to calm him down, who would hum a French lullaby and ease the love-sick Canadian to sleep.

That was one thing Matthew had discovered; love-sick was not a euphemism. It was not an exaggeration. It was an actual feeling. It was that wretched ache, a churning gut, the sweats, the chills, it was the ragged, painful beating of his breaking heart every minute of every day. He'd hidden it as best he could. He'd hidden behind Francis, reminding himself over and over again that he _couldn't_ just seize Alfred's lapels and smash their lips together; he was in a _relationship_. That excuse was gone.

Who was going to comfort him now? The only answer that came to mind was Alfred. Did he really want Alfred to see him like this? The tears that had earlier refused to come were now streaming hotly down his cheeks. Matthew Williams for once looked every bit as miserable and alone as he felt. Warm, salty water bathed his face, uncomfortably damp and insistent. There were so many people he should call instead of his best friend. People who wouldn't make this whole sordid mess that much worse.

The light of his cell phone screen hurt his eyes. It was two in the morning. Alfred would be sleeping – he looked like an angel when he slept – but the Canadian was too selfish to care. He pressed the contact, sobs racking his chest as the dial tone rang once, twice, three times.

'M'Alfred, who's died?' he said groggily. That half asleep voice just made the hurt worse and worse. Was there no end to the torment Matthew would subject himself to just to be near the man he loved.

"Al?" he hiccupped brokenly, his voice thick with tears, "Al, I'm not okay."

~====o)0(o====~

It only took Alfred fifteen minutes to get there, but when he did, he was awkward, hesitant to do anything. The American was terrified. His usually calm and collected best friend was snivelling in the foetal position on his bed. What was he supposed to do? He'd never seen Matt like this before.

Nervously, he sat on the corner of the bed, having let himself in – Alfred had the spare key and always had done – and put one large hand on Matthew's shoulder, patting him a little roughly.

"Hush now, Mattie, don't cry," he soothed clumsily.

"Just give me a fucking hug, Alfred," tearful and miserable, he was still organising things, "Hug me and tell me it'll all be okay. Tell me you won't leave me."

Obediently, Alfred pulled Matthew to his chest, holding him tightly and stroking his hair, "Everything's going to be alright, I promise. You'll always have me. Well always be together. I won't leave you, I swear."

Leaving tearstains on the grey shirt that the American had worn to bed, Matthew did his best to believe him.

He wanted so badly to believe.


	6. Too Little Too Late

**I have the best reviewers. EVER. **

**Kristall-Prinzessin, the woman in Australia who holds my heart in the palm of her hands, Zenna95, Cynmia, Rani of KuchNahi, wiwiun, IliveinIthilien, GreyMoth and my old friend, Cacow. I can type most of your usernames without checking. It's nice to have regulars, and newbies/lurkers are always welcome.**

**Though I honestly think that that is the first time in the history of everything that someone has told me that I update **_**too fast**_**.**

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Waking up on Alfred Jones' shoulder was a dream come true. The American's arms were still slung loosely around Matthew and the Canadian had to stop himself from cuddling into his best friend and just going back to sleep. That would be dangerous. Could he rightly explain himself if Alfred woke up to find them twisted together like a French plait? Probably not, not when he would tangle their legs and wrap his arms around Alfred in return. Not when he would nuzzle his face into the crook of the American's neck and breathe in the warm scent that was man, cotton, soap and Alfred. He could say that he had thought Alfred was Francis. But would the momentary warmth in his chest be worth the lie? Probably.

Even though he desperately, desperately wanted to do that, even though Alfred wouldn't mind all that much – the man had no concept of personal space – Matthew didn't want that. He didn't want to stoop low enough to steal physical affection from his friend. He wanted Alfred to give it to him. What Matthew wanted more than anything else in this world was for his friend to instigate a kiss, like he had done – was it really a decade ago? – that made, what, twelve years of longing. But that was beside the point. He wanted Alfred to just lean over and kiss him softly, to pull back with his cheeks flushed and breathlessly whisper, '_I love you, Mattie_,' with that gorgeous grin on his face all the while. And then the Canadian would pull Al into a kiss, and when he pulled back they would be cheek-to-cheek. Matt would whisper, '_I love you, too_,' they could be together always.

Of course that was never going to happen and even if it did, there was no way that it was actually going to go down that way. But Matthew had been waiting for twelve long years. He had pictured, imagined and thought of every single possibility. Or so he thought.

After a few minutes, Matthew realised that his hand was resting on Alfred's chest and was staring absently at it. Raising the hand slightly, he caressed the mottled grey cotton that covered the American's pectoral. The gentle touch made the sleeping man mumble something incomprehensible, shifting and rolling his shoulders so that the Canadian could see the nipple-stand he was currently hosting. Just a few centimetres from Matt's outstretched fingers.

Alfred was asleep.

Couldn't he? Just… one touch couldn't… it wouldn't hurt, would it?

It would be just like if they were together.

Before he had really thought through any plan of action, Matthew's hand was flat to Al's chest, the firm flesh warm through his shirt, that deceptively stiff nub pressed against the barrier the American's shirt, nuzzling into the Canadian's soft palm.

His heartbeat ragged in his chest, the younger blond watched Alfred's sleeping face as the corner of his mouth quirked into a half-smile and a sound that was half grunt and half moan gusted from between the American's parted lips.

Quickly removing his hand, Matt feigned sleep, watching through his eyelashes as Alfred rolled over and stretched, memorising the contented sighs that filled the air when the other man's joints popped. It was only through sheer force of will that the Canadian didn't settle when a large, gentle hand pushed a lock of hair back from his face and a knuckle poked at his cheekbone. It wasn't an intimate or romantic gesture. It was brotherly, and Matthew felt like crying again.

Two months. If this resurgence of feeling didn't calm down in two months -

Masochistically, Matthew hoped it would calm down.

~====o)0(o====~

Matthew Williams always stuck to his guns. When he made a promise, he kept it. Self-discipline was something that was a point of personal pride for him, and it was something that he wouldn't break for love or money.

Which was why, two months after he had woken up with Alfred in his bed, he was packing up his desk and wishing that he had given himself more time. He'd given his two weeks' notice in two weeks ago – it had been pretty obvious that he wasn't going to last. It was getting worse with every passing day. Just like those stupid proverbs said; every day he would notice something new, or rediscover something old that he loved about Alfred and it was driving him insane. Every day he loved Alfred more and it was making him miserable.

Carefully, he picked up a dark wooden picture frame and smiled sadly at the photo it contained. It was just after they'd graduated. They had their arms around each other, laughing and smiling. It was a happy memory, and the Canuck slid the frame into the neatly organised box of belongings, looking with a nasal sigh at the now empty office. It had always been sparsely decorated – Alfred was more one for knick-knacks – but now it was bare. The potted plant had been adopted by human resources and the contents of his desk half-way filled a medium-sized box.

Now he was the only personal thing left in the room.

"Hey, Matt," a frown creased Alfred's forehead as he wandered into the room – knocking wasn't exactly his forte, and never had been – "I was just wondering why half your stocks ended up in- whoa!" he stopped dead, eyes darting about the empty room, "Are you redecorating? Is this place being fumigated? Where's your plant? Is – Matthew. What's in the box?"

Matthew wished more than anything that he could just sink down five floors and slink out of the door. That had been his original intention; clear out, turn off his cell and lock the door. It wasn't fair, it wasn't nice, but it wouldn't be as painful, and he wouldn't have to explain. He had even hired someone to take his place. Not that she would ever be Alfred's best friend, but Monika Beilschmidt seemed… efficient. And severely unlikely to let the American get a leg over.

"My things," his voice was a hoarse whisper. He hadn't wanted to be caught. He didn't want to explain why he was leaving.

"Why?" it was heart breaking how very small Al's voice sounded, like a child asking why daddy wasn't going to be coming home.

"Because they're easier to carry this way," Matthew was having hard time speaking around the solid lump of emotion that was stuck in his throat. If there was any kind of Heimlich manoeuver for feelings, he would have been very much obliged if someone would have performed it just then.

"Your things. Are in a box. Half your shares have been transferred into my name," he waved the piece of paper he had been frowning at when he walked in, "Matthew? Why?"

"I'm _leaving_," for someone so intelligent, Alfred could be rather spectacularly dumb.

"Yes, yes, of course you're leaving. I'm asking _why_ you're leaving. Did I do something wrong, do you need some time off? A holiday? We can work around this, surely?" the Canadian began to walk away, striding down the corridors and to the staircase. He would have taken the elevator, but Alfred was right on his heels and probably would have stopped him. As it was, Alfred was badgering him.

"Please, Mattie, talk to me!"

"No, Al, I'm just going, okay?" Matthew snapped, not daring to look at the man he loved in case his resolve broke.

"No! Not okay! Is this about Francis? You've been acting weird since he broke it off," Ah, so the idiot savant showed his hand.

"No, it's not about Francis. This is about me," but there was a quaver to his tone that made Alfred latch onto the topic. They were marching through the lobby now and people were staring.

"Getting dumped does not justify quitting without telling me! Let's be reasonable, please? You'll find someone who loves you, Matt, I know you will!"

That was the straw that broke the camel's back. Matthew whipped around, standing on the pavement outside the office building their – Alfred's alone, now – company owned.

"For someone with a genius-level IQ and an Ivy-League education, you can be _so fucking stupid_!" He yelled, hurling the box into the backseat of his car, an angry snarl on his lips.

"Mattie-?" Alfred's face was pathetically sad, and the Canadian felt his cracked heart breaking into pieces in his chest.

"Finding someone to love me isn't a problem, Alfred! Carlos, Gilbert, Ivan, Francis; they all _loved_ me! That's not the issue here!" Matt was beyond reason. Years of pent up frustration were pouring from his lips. He didn't care that he was throwing a fit in the middle of a crowded street and that people had stopped to watch him scream at the completely shell-shocked American.

"What? But then-"

"Me! _I'm_ the problem! _I_ didn't love _them_! I'm in love with someone else!" he couldn't stop the words from rolling off his tongue.

"Wh-"

"You! You, _idiot_! I'm in love with _you_!"

Quite possibly a first in the history of the world; Alfred Jones had nothing to say. His jaw hung slack in its socket, showing off a lot of very white enamel.

"That's why they all leave me, Al, because I want them to. I don't want anyone but you. It's always been you. And I can't take it anymore. I know you'll never love me back. I'm not your type. Hell, I'm the wrong _gender_. And it breaks my heart to look at you every day. So I'm going to take your advice, Al. I'm putting me first this time. Take care of yourself, okay? And I don't ever want to see you again." Adrenaline still pumping in his veins, and before he could think too much about what he'd just said, Matthew climbed into his car and pulled into the stream of cars and away from the American he loved.

The crowd dispersed, and still Alfred stood there, stock still.

"Mattie," he croaked, much too late, "_Wait_."


	7. A Picture's Worth A Thousand Words

**I babysit regularly for children between the ages of 1 and 4 years old, and this is more intelligible than any of the little fuckers I have ever met. Don't get me wrong; I adore children. I just don't understand what the hell they're saying until they hit 7. **

**Uh… My internet is down. I'm sorry; this should have been up sooner. I love you all my reviewers!**

Alfred liked photographs. This was for two reasons; one, he was extremely photogenic, and two, they kept memories. He had scads and scads of photo albums that chronicled his life from black and white ultrasounds to just last week when he'd had a load of picture are developed. And right now, his coffee table was nigh-on collapsing under their weight.

A leather-bound book sat open in his lap, sun-shiny, gold-hazed photos of two blond children smiled up at him. Amelia Jones had always been very snap-happy, especially around her son, and Alfred had made copies of all her snapshots. It was nice to have a photo-diary of his days. Things he forgot were easily remembered, and reminiscing was always fun.

But not today.

Hot fingers dragged slowly over the cool, almost damp-feeling photo-paper, over his own, round face and the thin face of the child beside him. The date was written beside it in blockish handwriting, along with a line of text,

_June 15 1985: The hero found his sidekick._

Underneath that, in neat, round cursive, a pencil had written,

_15 June 1985: I was kidnapped by a deranged American._

Oh. He had forgotten that Matthew had jokingly annotated some of his photos. It was in pencil, so he could easily erase it should he so desire. But he didn't want to. The Canadian's snarky words always brought a smile to his lips, even if this smile was rather melancholic.

It had been a bit of both, really.

"_Matthew, why don't you go play with the other children?" Madeline asked, hoping for a minute to read her book and relax. After all, that was the reason that they were at the park on this fine Saturday morning. The sun was shining, the skies were clear and Matthew Williams was clinging resolutely to his mother's leg, looking warily at the jungle-gym that he was being encouraged to explore. The little boy shook his head obstinately. But then again, it's rather hard to get a one year old to do anything that you want them to. _

"_Alfie, Alfie-baby, go play, okay? Mommy'll be watching you the whole time, I promise," Amelia said, her tone that of an exhausted mother as she plopped a chubby child onto the grass and sank down onto the bench beside Madeline. The excitable boy had only gone two or three paces when he caught sight of Matthew and stopped dead. He had walked straight up to the little Canadian with his galumphing toddler's footsteps._

_The two stared at each other with wide eyes. Alfred was a chubby little boy, with a round face and a wet, smiling mouth. His golden blond hair stuck up in odd directions and his clear blue eyes were always searching for the next object to hold his interest. Matthew was thin and pale, his big, indigo eyes and almost ginger hair making him rather eye-catching, even if he did look like a very solemn deer in the headlights. His hair curled in thin wisps around his ears and he was gnawing on his bottom lip. _

_Slowly, Alfred turned to his mother, "Momma, want _that_ one," he said loudly, pointing at the silent Matthew. _

"_Alfie-baby, he's a person, you can't have him," she hissed embarrassedly, giving Madeline an apologetic grimace, "I'm so sorry about that. Alfie's … Well, he's like that."_

_The Canadian woman shook her head, smiling tiredly, "Matthew is, too," she lied._

_While their mother's spoke, Alfred wiggled out of Amelia's grasp and back up to Matthew, who was still watching him._

"_A'fred Juns," he said proudly, sticking out his chest and holding out his hand. This distracted the two women. Madeline was about to snatch her son away from the little brat whom she was quite certain was frightening him, and Amelia was about to take her own somewhere where he wouldn't embarrass her, but they were stopped when Matthew unwound himself from his mother's leg and took the other boy's offered hand._

"_Maffew Wiw-yums," he whispered, staring at the ground. _

"_Y'wanna pway wif me, Maffwoo?" Alfred smiled, gently tugging on the slighter boys arm, pointing to the little children's playground not two metres from where they stood._

"_Ahkay, A'fred," the little Canadian nodded, letting himself be lead off to play in the sandbox. _

_Hours later, they had had to be literally pulled apart, Alfred tearfully wailing for his 'Maffwoo'. Most shockingly of all was when said 'Maffwoo' pushed his mother away when she tried to pick him up. He kicked, wiggled and screamed, _

"_Uh-_uh_, Maman! Dun _wanna_! __Wanna _A'fred_!" _

"_Shall we meet again tomorrow?" a desperate Madeline asked, trying to keep a hold of her thrashing son. _

"_I don't think we have a choice," Amelia laughed._

Alfred didn't remember any of that. Everything he knew had been told to him by his mother and Matthew's (both of whom took great delight in retelling embarrassing childhood tales; especially if they got to point out how the boys had struggled with _Matthew_). And of course, there was tonnes of photographic evidence; the two of them building sandcastles, rocking on see-saws, laughing and smiling. When had everything gone so horribly to pot?

He flipped on a few pages, they were three here, and they were going trick-or-treating together.

"_Why aren't you eating your chocolate, Mattie?" Alfred had asked, curiously looking over at his friend's Jack-o-lantern basket._

"_I don't like it," he'd grimaced, giving the little pile of cocoa-flavoured sweets a baleful glare, as though they'd done him great personal offence, "How come you haven't eated the marshmallows?" he asked in return, pointing at the bright orange and green, sugar-encrusted pillows of artificial flavouring and preservatives. _

"_Too sweet!" Alfred grimaced, gesturing with a half-eaten mush of mallow; green and frog-shaped. _

"_Alfie-baby! Look at mommy!" Amelia called, meaning to catch the boys smiling at the camera and looking cute in their costumes. _

Instead what she caught was a brown bear waving at his mommy while the little white bear beside him swapped the chocolate for the marshmallows. And then Alfred turning back to Matthew and the look of delight on his face when he discovered that the too-sweet mallows had been replaced with choccies while the Canadian munched smugly on a frog.

Twenty-three years older, Alfred looked at the picture, fingers tapping at their faces. Matt was always looking out for him, being nice. And he'd had this extraordinary ability to stay immaculately clean, even when dressed in a white, footie bear suit. And he'd had a formidable sweet-tooth even at that age.

A sound echoed around his cosy apartment, and it gave the American the fright of his life to realise that it was his own bitter laughter. Well, not quite the fright of his life. That had been this afternoon when Matthew had told him that he never wanted to see him again.

Really? Did Mattie really never want to see him again?

But he hadn't even done anything wrong!

Except.

Alfred tossed the album onto the groaning coffee-table and rummaged in the landslide of books for a moment before pulling out the one he wanted. He flicked through it until he found it. The day they'd won their first computer building competition. Some bastard had nicked the last screw that they needed and without even thinking about it, Matt had whipped off his glasses and unscrewed the arms, using those screws instead. He'd said that he had used his because Alfred's eyesight was worse (_bullshit_) and that Alfred knew more about computers than he did, so to use Al's would put them at a disadvantage (grudgingly true).

But what the American was pretty damn positive of was that Matthew hadn't even considered Alfred's glasses as a possibility. Matt was all about self-sacrifice, self-discipline and putting everyone else above himself. Hence Al's constant pestering to put himself first.

"I take it back," he said childishly to his silent apartment, "Put me first, Mattie."

Matthew had always been there for him; bailing out of trouble, making sure he did his homework and handed it in. Giving him a pep-talk before he asked the head cheerleader to prom, giving him a pat on the back, sticking up for him when he got flack for being tubby – though that had gone down pretty damn quickly once they hit middle school. Leaning on his shoulder, just to piss him off.

And Alfred had always been there for Matt, being a shoulder to lean on when his parents got divorced, inviting him over for a movie-marathon when he got turned down by a guy he'd liked. Sticking up for him when he got shit for being gay (until junior year, that is, when Matt grew practically two foot over the summer, made the school hockey-team's centre and earned a reputation for playing fast and hard. No one gave him any trouble after that).

They'd grown up together. They'd fought, they'd made up, they'd played together, worked together. They were Alfred and Matthew, Matt and Al. And Alfred was the only one allowed to call him Mattie. No one else. Not his mother, not his boyfriends, just Alfred.

Al gulped. Matthew loved him?

_Loved_ him?

So much that he never wanted to see him again?

How long had this been going on?

They'd grown up like brothers, but that obviously wasn't how Matt saw it. But- but! The American wanted to scream and yank at his hair. He didn't understand how this had happened. How was Matt willing to put aside twenty-five years of memories for that? Weren't there people who went through that for their whole lives and never told the person? Couldn't have Matt just done that? This was so fucking awkward.

"I can't help how I am!" he moaned, throwing his head back in his frustration. He had lost his best friend because he was _straight_. How backwards was the world, really?

"_Hey, Al?" they were in university now, just slipping off to sleep, bodies thrumming from the music at the party they'd just been to._

"_Yeah, Mattie?" he'd yawned._

"_Remember when I told you I was gay? And you kissed me?"_

"_Kinda hard to forget the first time you kiss a dude," the American mumbled into his pillow._

"_That was my first kiss." Alfred was wide awake now, sitting bolt upright and staring at the leggy Canadian on the couch across from him – they hadn't made it to their rooms – limbs hooked carelessly over the furniture. _

"Dude_! Why didn't you _say_ something?" Muffled laughter rang through the room,_

"_You didn't give me time. But it's cool. M'glad it was you," Matthew murmured as he fell asleep. _

And then Matthew's relationships started. Alfred had always attracted a lot of attention from the ladies, but his relationships were usually flash-burn and quickly extinguished. No one really held his attention long enough to have a steady relationship. In fact, with Matt's help, he usually had more than one going on at the same time.

Matt's relationships were serious, steady and intense. They could last for a couple of years apiece, only to crumble for no apparent reason. But Francis had been the longest. And an engagement to boot?

It must suck to realise that your fiancé doesn't love you.

All this time though… Had Matthew been looking for a replacement Alfred? Maybe that's why the best of his relationships had been with Gilbert (Alfred's personality) and Francis (Alfred's colouring, give or take a shade).

Alfred looked back down at the book in his lap, watching the smiling pictures. Was Matthew's smile just a little bit off? Why were his eyes so sad? Hadn't he caught a viral cold the very afternoon that Al had gotten his first girlfriend? And stayed ill for five days? That seemed a little excessive.

That saying about hindsight being 20-20 had never made more sense than it did now. Flashing through the American's mind were hundreds, maybe thousands of occasions that he hadn't thought anything of at the time but when but into the context of Mattie having feelings for him they made so much more sense. The weary sigh that the Canadian gave every time he told him about his girlfriends, those lingering hugs, the way Matt would look away from any display of affection Alfred made, public or otherwise. The way Matt had point-blank refused to go on double dates. The way he was always shirts when they played one-on-one. Everything made so much more sense now, and Alfred had been too involved in his numbers and himself to see.

And the signs had practically been dancing naked in front of him.

How had he been so _blind_?

Generally, Al was a very sweet, understanding person. He didn't understand this. He'd been playing silly-buggers with advanced physics since middle-school, but numbers were easy friends to have around. Numbers were straightforward and simple. There was always an answer, even if the answer was 'there is no answer.'

But people? People were complicated and changeable. And Matthew had left Alfred with a whole lot of questions that he desperately wanted answered and just couldn't seem to solve by himself. He needed Mattie. Basic business body-language was a breeze, but trying to figure out emotions like love?

What was it even like to be loved like that?

The person would have to be at your side always, unconditionally, putting your needs above their own, above everyone else's. Someone who doesn't care if you can be thick as three planks.

Someone like Matt had been.

Fuck understanding. Alfred Jones was confused, hurt and angry, and damn it, he was going to get _answers_.

He was _not_ going to lose his best friend.


	8. The Reason Why

**I'm going to have to do a mass review-thanks when I get my internet back up and running (give or take two weeks.) But thank you all just the same! I'm always grateful for your support and readership!**

**Lyrics: Vampire Heart – H.I.M**

_Hold me like you held onto life  
When all fears came alive and into me  
Love me like you like you love the sun  
Scorching the blood in my vampire heart_

It took two hours of begging and pleading outside Matthew's front door to get him to open it.

Alfred smiled widely, tilting the bouquet of roses towards the angry Canadian.

"I was just wondering if you'd like to go on a date with me."

Of all the things the American was expecting to happen, having the door slammed violently in his face was not one of them.

"_NO_!" Matthew yelled from the safety of the other side of the door, his forehead pressed against the dark wood and an expression of anguish twisting his features.

Alfred was reaching the end of his tether. He stared blankly at the door that had missed his nose by half an inch at most.

"Why not?" he demanded, "I thought that this was what you wanted!"

"I want you to _return_ my feelings, you fuck-head, not take advantage of them!" the Canadian told the door, not sure if he wanted it to be thicker so that he never had to see Alfred again, or if he wanted it to be glass.

"Take advantage? What the hell are you talking about?" Matthew could picture the expression of flabbergasted outrage perfectly and it pissed him off royally. How _dare_ Alfred pretend that he didn't know what he was talking about?

"You know that I want to be with you so you're trying to manipulate me. I _know_ you, Alfred Jones. You aren't going to pull this one over on me," Al had pulled this stunt a couple of times on girls that he knew liked him but that he didn't like back. He just wanted Matt back in a friend-capacity. He didn't want to date him. That hurt. It was like being punched in the gut to know that he was so wanted, but not in the way he wanted to be wanted.

"I'm trying to give you what you want!" Alfred yelled at the wooden barrier between them, wishing more than anything that Matthew would just look him in the face and explain all of this.

"Then why are you here? I told you that I never wanted to see you again," Matthew sagged against the wood, his broken heart aching in his chest more acutely than it ever had done. That wasn't entirely true. Of course he wanted to see Alfred again. He wanted to hold his hand and kiss his cheek and lips. He wanted to argue about what they were going to have for dinner and he wanted to wake up beside him. But more than anything he wanted to be properly happy again, and seeing as he couldn't make that happen with the man he loved, he was just going to put on his big-boy boxers and get over him. It had been long enough.

"And I know _you_, Matthew Williams. I _know_ when you're lying to me," the accusing American accent pierced the door and Matthew's heart. Al always had had a knack of spotting Matthew's little untruths.

"Why can't you just leave me alone?" he asked so quietly that Alfred had to strain his ears to hear him. There was a note of utter defeat in Matt's voice that made the American very uncomfortable. Had he done the wrong thing by coming here?

"Because you left me standing like a pole outside the office after screaming at me. I want answers, Mattie-"

"_Don't call me that_!" the words were accompanied by a loud thump and Alfred could only assume that that had been the Canadian's fist hitting the door.

"What? Why not?" This was just not Alfred's day today. Everything was going wrong. He was doing everything wrong. Apparently he had been for years, but he had only discovered that today.

"Because I don't want you to, isn't that enough?" Matt's temper was getting shorter and shorter as the conversation progressed and Al could hear it in his voice. He could hear the strain and hurt in Matthew's voice, but still he pushed.

"Not after you walked out on my today! You owe me an explanation!" He protested, poking the door with his index finger and receiving nothing for his trouble but a sore finger.

"Fine! Because I'm _trying_ to get over you, Jones, I'm _trying_ to be happy again. But I don't know if I can actually be properly happy without you and that scares me shitless. And believe it or not, dangling yourself in front of me _is not helping_," Matthew said, his frustration evident in his tone, and Alfred wished he could see the Canadian's face. He only ever called him Jones when he was really mad at him, and there was an emotion on the other side of that door that he just couldn't place. Pain, anguish, irritation, but there was something deeper than that, some underlying emotion that he had no name for and the magnitude of it scared him a little bit.

"Why can't we just keep going like we did?" Now Alfred's voice was small and scared. Matthew had been a constant in his life for longer than he could actually remember and he wasn't entirely sure he was going to like his life all that much when there was a giant, Matthew-shaped hole in it.

"Because you're _hurting_ me! Just be being there. Just by being so fucking unobtainable! Just by existing on the other side of this Goddamn door!" irritation was anger now. Was Matt fed up with him and his questions? Should he go? Just one more,

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked quietly. The door was yanked open and Alfred had to take a step back. Matthew was usually hunched over, so he appeared smaller than he actually was. Now the Canadian stood in the doorway, his face drawn, and rage glittering in his eyes as he regarded his best friend. Damn, Al had forgotten that Matt was taller than he was.

Before Al could get past the 'what' in, 'What are you doing?' Matthew stepped forward, one large, pale hand roughly seizing the back of his neck and yanking the American forward into a kiss. The second their lips touched, all the anger seemed to melt from the Canadian. His grip loosened to a caress and though the kiss was insistent, it wasn't harsh. It was looking for something that Alfred was so sure wasn't there.

Time unfroze and Alfred opened his mouth, biting down hard on Matthew's lip, shoving him away. The American looked at his friend with fear, anger and confusion in his eyes.

"Dude. What the _fuck_?" Alfred croaked.

Matthew's face crumpled like wet paper, and Al couldn't seem to look away from the pure, unbridled misery in that expression.

"_That_ is why I didn't tell you," the Canadian murmured, his shoulders once more slumped as he turned and shut the door. Alfred heard the lock click shut, and then he heard Matthew's back hit the door and the other man slowly slide down the other side.

And then he heard him cry.


	9. Mother Knows Best

**Whoa, sorry about the wait…**

**Thank you to the lovely Lysetletrille, who corrected my use of French~!**

**Oh! "I know a fairy can't wave a wand and make it all better" whoever said that; I told woodbyne that on gchat, where were you? (Technically it was "Does the gay fairy smack him on the head with her wand?" "If it comes to that, she can shove her wand up his ass until he likes it!")**

**Oh, and if anyone who feels that way inclined could just say a HUGE thank you to woodbyne (I'm TheRutheLa) for posting these last three chapters while my internet is out, that'd be great. That woman needs much love. She's the reason you aren't waiting another three days.**

If there was one way in which the two men were remarkably similar, it was that they both loved their mothers, and in a time of need, there is no greater comfort to a little boy than his mom, no matter how old he may be.

~====o)0(o====~

Amelia Jones wore her age well. There were laugh lines around her mouth and eyes, and her hair was bottle-blonde to make up for the grey. Sometimes she made jokes to the theme of her being an old woman, but that wasn't necessarily true.

Her favourite coral lipstick sat in the creases of her lips as she smiled at her webcam, and Alfred couldn't help but smile back, even if there were still worry-lines on his brow.

"Hey, Alfie-baby," she said, "What's up? You sounded so serious on the phone," her smile faded a little as she saw how upset her son looked.

"It's-" Alfred fidgeted, looking away and then back again, arms folding and unfolding, legs crossing and uncrossing, "Ma, am I a bad person?" he asked, teeth sunk into his lower lip.

"Oh, baby, no, of course not! You're a bit thick sometimes, but you're a good boy," she assured, her maternal-radar throwing up bogies all over the show.

"What if- What if I did something wrong? But I don't know what I did wrong and now I've messed everything up," he sighed, looking at his keyboard, wondering if Matthew would answer his emails. He certainly wasn't answering his phone.

"You'll always be my hero, Alfie, you can solve everything. You're my good, clever boy. Now why don't you tell me what's wrong?" Amelia said calmly, her voice soothing. It was nice to hear that tone after so long – Al made a point to call his mom more often.

"It's Mattie, Ma. He's in love with me," the young man smiled ruefully at the camera, the corner or his mouth twitching as he tried not to let his lip wobble.

"Oh dear," his mother sighed, "_Still_? That poor boy."

"What? You _knew_?" Alfred was outraged. His own mother had kept this from him? What else didn't he know? "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked for the second time that evening, hoping for less extreme results this time.

"It wasn't my secret to tell. Besides, it wasn't that hard to see. Poor Matthew dotes on you, Alfie-baby. He'd probably jump in front of a bus if you asked him to," again, Amelia sighed maternally, wondering how the boy she considered her second son was handling this little coming out. Not well, most likely. Matthew had never dealt with emotional extremes very well.

"Thanks, Ma. Now I feel blind as well as stupid," Alfred grimaced, rolling his eyes and slouching low in his seat, "And I don't think Mattie'll be doing me any favours again. He told me he loves me and that he never wants to see me again."

"Oh, honey, I'm so sorry. What happened next?"

"I confronted him, he yelled at me, he kissed me, I freaked out."

Amelia frowned deeply,

"Why?"

"Why _what_, Ma?" Alfred was literally tearing at his hair in exasperation, deep lines of hurt and confusion gouged into his face. Everything was just so mixed up. He had a wicked urge to just shut out people, take apart his laptop and put it back together again. That always calmed him down when he was upset. But his mother was on his laptop, so that would be a little rude.

"Why did you freak out?" she asked calmly, "It's not as if the two of you haven't kissed before."

"How do you even _know_ that?" his voice rose in pitch, eyebrows pulling together like magnets on his forehead.

"God gave me two eyes and French windows for a reason, Alfie," Amelia said brusquely, "And as I recall, _you_ kissed _him_ that time." And she had also seen gangly little Matthew blush, hanging his head and touching his lips, a hopeful little smile curling their corners, "I don't think you did that boy any favours."

"What? You just said that I hadn't done anything wrong!" Life had been so very simple just a few days ago. His only worry had been keeping his girlfriend's names straight. And now his best friend had made his prestige and Alfred didn't know who to look to anymore.

"I said you were a good boy. There's a difference. You know what they say about the road to hell-"

"_Mother_!" he yelled, distraught.

"Yes?" she asked, seeming to rethink her previous statement about hell and good intentions.

"What do I do?" Alfred asked, no, begged. He needed to be told what to do here. He didn't want to have to deal with this problem. He didn't want to have to solve this mess on his own. Usually Matthew would help him, but in this instance, Matthew was the problem and his mom didn't seem to be that much of a help either.

"That depends very much, baby," Amelia said, pursing her lips thoughtfully as she regarded the state her son was in.

"Has this ever happened to you? What did you do?" Al really was grasping at straws now, anything to get rid of this problem and make things go back to the way they were.

"Yes, but I don't know how help-"

"_What did you do_?"

"Alfred, don't shout at me, this isn't my fault. When my best friend fell in love with me, I married him, if you really must know, and we had a child named Alfred Franklin Jones," Amelia snapped, a little irritated at how out of hand Al was getting.

"_Dad_? Oh, God. What does it depend on, then?" marriage was not really a possible solution that he wanted to explore in this scenario.

"Well, how did you feel when he kissed you?"

Alfred stared into the middle-distance for a while. How had he felt? Shocked? Scared? Angry? Confused as all hell? Yes, yes, yes and _yes_. But at the same time, in the instant he had parted his lips to bite his best friend; the thought had come upon him that Matthew was actually a really good kisser, and maybe it would be worth kissing back. Maybe he wanted to kiss him back. That tiny little thought scared him more than the fact that Matt had actually kissed him in the first place.

"I don't know," he whispered, holding his head in his hands.

~====o)0(o====~

Matthew sat on his couch, legs folded up to his chest as he clutched the telephone. His hair was dark with water from the shower, hanging straight to his shoulders and soaking his tee shirt. Dressed comfortably in old sweats and a cotton shirt, his glasses forgotten on the counter beside the bathroom sink he stared at the device in his hands, long fingers tapping the number in and hitting call.

"_Salut_," a male voice answered.

"Oh, hello, Pierre, is my mother at home?" Matthew always made a point to speak English to his mother's boyfriend even though French was actually his home language, simply because it pissed him off. His parents' divorce was still rather a sore subject.

"_Oui_," Pierre had long since come to the conclusion that his step-son was a passive-aggressive little shit and it was best to just put up with it, after all, it's not like they ever really had to converse at length. There was a pause as he turned his head from the phone, "Madeline, _mon amour_? _C'est_ Matthieu!"

"Matthew?" she said happily, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Maman?" the relaxed tone he had used with his stepfather fell away completely, "I fucked up big time."

A nasal sigh echoed down the international phone line, "Oh dear, sweetheart, what happened?"

"Alfred. I- _Mon Dieu_, I'm so damn stupid - _Je, je l'ai embrassé_, Maman. He looked at me..._comme si j'étais dans la merde sous ses souliers_. "

"One or the other, Matthew, you know I can't abide Franglais."

"_Désolé_, Maman," he said, dutifully waiting for her comment on his crisis. She let out another sigh, this one heavier than the last. There was the weight of a worry that had waited many years for fruition behind that exhalation,

"I always knew that boy would break your heart," Matthew frowned at the phone,

"I know you never liked him much, Maman, but he's my best friend and he's been otherwise very good to me." He said reproachfully. Madeline's tone was sharp when she next spoke,

"_Il est bête noir_," she said contemptuously, and Matt could almost hear her pursing her lips.

Matthew seethed into the receiver, "He's never said a word against me. He's been kind and faithful to me throughout everything. He has never, _ever_ left my side when I needed him, no matter his personal problems and expected nothing more than my friendship in return. He makes my heart _sing_, Maman. He makes my day brighter just by being there and smiling. I know you think he's a bad influence on me, but he hasn't. He's been good for me and good to me. What more do you expect from him? It's not Alfred's fault that I fell in love with him!"

"Neither is it yours. You're still his champion, even after he's rejected you," Madeline sounded tired. She was sick of Alfred Jones stringing her son along, despite her best efforts, and now that he wasn't any more, Matthew's sadness made her heart ache. She wanted her boy to smile again, the way he used to before this foolish dream of his had been crushed.

"I'm afraid I might always be," Matt sighed, blinking his tired eyes at the ceiling of his apartment, "Maman, I'm afraid-"

"You can survive without him, Matthew. You are so much stronger than you think you are. I can't make the hurt stop, sweetheart, but you wash your face, watch a comedy and maybe eat some strawberries – those always make you feel better – and things won't seem so bad, alright?"

The Canadian in America gave a thin smile to the bowl of sliced strawberries, sugar and cream besides him and the Puss in Boots DVD menu on the TV screen in front of him and laughed damply, "You know me so well, Maman."

"You'll always be my boy," Madeline smiled fondly at the reviewer in her hand.

"Always. _À bientôt_, Maman," Matthew said quietly, pressing play, "Love you."

"Love you, too, Matthew."

Strawberries, a funny film, a fairly heartening conversation with his mother; Matt's day was beginning to look up a little. Of course, what the rest of the night would hold was another story entirely, but for now, he had some modicum of happiness to be getting on with, and perhaps tomorrow he would build on it.

~====o)0(o====~

Alfred lay spread on his bed, star-shaped and open, hoping for the universe to grant him some kind of reprieve from his own mind, which was chasing itself in circles. His skype-call to Amelia hadn't done him nearly so much good as Matthew's to Madeline. Now he had new questions dancing around his head. Ones he had purposefully avoided. A thousand 'what ifs' poured into his conscious as though someone had opened the sluices of his though process.

What if he'd been leading Mattie on all this time? What if he never got his best friend back? What if he'd been cruel to Matthew? What if things had gone differently? What if Matt had told Alfred that he liked him the first time they'd kissed? What if Alfred had seen the signs? What if Matthew got over his feelings and they were friends again- would it be awkward? What if Matthew never got over his feelings and Alfred couldn't be without his best friend? What then? What if he'd never kissed Matt in the first place? Would all this have gone away? Would it never have happened? Would Matthew be happier? But the largest, most pressing question weighed heavily on Alfred's conscious. After all these years of making him sad, could he make Matthew happy again? Would he want to if he could? Would he be a bad person for not trying? Would Matthew ever forgive him for today? He'd seemed so… hopeless. What if he could give Mattie hope? Would he be able to give it to him always? Should he? If he didn't feel the same way?

…He didn't feel the same way… _did_ he?

_What if I'd kissed him back?_


	10. If You Call

**My wonderful girlfriend (whom I'm catching up to in the angst stakes), Zenna95, Shizuka Aralia, Lysetletrille (correcter of my non-existent French), GreyMoth and themagnificent ME.**

**In unrelated news; go read GreyMoth's stories. Seriously. I've only read one (Here We Go Again), but that one was brilliant. So good that I thought, "Hmmmm. Who is this auth- Holy SHIT. **_**You read my stories!**_** I am unworthy." So, yeah. Go read that.**

**In this chapter you will find; BelaKrain, Nedergium and Seychelaco. And genderbent GerIta; because I miss my girlfriend, and she is the Germany to my Italy. This continent just isn't the same without you, babe. I am bleeding angst here.**

"Matt," the Ukrainian girl said, concern lacing her voice with ruffles, "This is _serious_! He's driven you to _strawberries_!"

Matthew scowled, sucking on the tall glass of pink milkshake in front of him and hoping that he didn't get any of the seeds stuck in his teeth.

"Katy, I really have no idea what you're talking about," he said, straightening up and smiling serenely at her and the two friends of hers that he had been invited out to breakfast with; a slight Mediterranean girl named Michelle Mancham and the more robust-looking Belgian, Emma Maes.

"Well," Emma said snarkily as she pointed at his plate, "I'm just taking a wild guess, but she might be talking about the pancakes you had with _strawberry_ ice-cream that you dowsed in _strawberry_ syrup, the fruit salad – of which you only at the _strawberries_ – and your _strawberry_ milkshake."

"I just like strawberries," he shrugged, hunching over to try and make himself smaller. Why had he agreed to come out again? Because company was good and his new job was French translation. Right.

"But you only ever eat them when you're upset!" Katy was on the verge of tears, her lips trembled and her eyes were watering.

"I'll get over it, it's nothing serious," Matthew smiled, reaching over to pat her hand reassuringly, neglecting to mention that he had actually gone so far as wearing makeup to cover the deep circles around his eyes – a dead giveaway that he had barely slept in two weeks. It was hard to sleep when the nights were so empty and cold. If it had been physically cold, then he wouldn't have minded. Matthew loved cold weather; it was bracing. What he minded was that there was a tiny blizzard in his chest that didn't seem to quiet. Alfred was on his mind, as per usual, but this was different. He'd had a frail sort of hope before, but now that hope had been dashed and he had nothing but empty longing and painful daydreams. And regret; he regretted so many things about that one afternoon that he barely believed it possible. He regretted not pushing that kiss, he regretted not tell Alfred soon and he regretted telling him at all, he regretted the nights he spent wondering what if.

"Are you sure?" Emma asked, a worried frown creasing her brow, "You're our new GBF after all; we want you to be happy."

"GBF? I don't know what that means," the Canadian laughed, his faithful false cheer firmly in place. He had made a solemn promise to himself that he wouldn't give Alfred Jones the benefit of another tear.

"Gay Best Friend," Katy chipped in happily.

"Well, then," Matt said, wrinkling his nose distastefully, "As your GBF, I am perfectly fine, and would like to know how you lot are doing. Katy, you're seeing Nikolai Arlofski, right? How's Lars doing, Emma? And if I'm not mistaken," he leant his chin in the cupped palm of one hand, the index finger drawing air-circles at Michelle, "You and the Casino Queen, Emily Dupont have a bit of a thing going, don't you?"

Emma looked at Katy in utter joy, "Oh, he's _good_!"

"Better than you said," Michelle said quietly, her voice high and sweet, though her pidgin French accent was quite thick.

"Girls, please," this was a part Matthew was very good at playing; the attentive friend. Nothing bad ever happened to him; he just wanted to know how everyone else was doing. Of course, unlike Alfred's natural charisma, Matt's was largely just good acting, "Enough about me, I want to hear about you!"

They all blushed and giggled, and it was Emma who spoke first, "Lars sent me the biggest bunch of tulips I have ever seen yesterday. You know how he handles most of the export to the US? It was beautiful. He told me that he handpicked each one of them."

"You're so lucky!" Katy sighed dreamily and the Canadian made an appropriately impressed sound in the back of his throat, unable to stop himself thinking of the roses Alfred had tried to give him – they'd still been outside his door the next morning and were currently rotting in a vase on his coffee table – he couldn't bear to throw them away, "Nikolai isn't that romantic, but he is sweet." She pointed to the crystal encrusted clips that kept her fringe back from her face, "He says that he'll treat me like a glass queen… Well, that's not the right translation… But it was really beautiful."

"It sounds beautiful," Matthew smiled, admiring the clips while Emma cooed over them, "What about you, Chelles? Any luck with your lady love?"

"We went to Las Vegas and she showed me the lights from the top of her hotel," the islander blushed, roses blooming in her coffee-toned cheeks.

The Canadian smiled, pulling a small square of blue material from his pocket and polishing his spectacle lenses with it. Setting those down on the table, he rubbed tiredly at his eyes, a faint grin still hanging about his lips,

"This makes me so happy, really it does. I'm so glad you're all doing we- What are you looking at?" he frowned. All three women were gaping at his face, and too late Matthew remembered that he wasn't supposed to rub his eyes because there was a liberal quantity of concealer there.

"Oh, Matthew," Katy sighed.

"Is that makeup?" Emma frowned.

"_Cher ami_," Michelle said solemnly, "Either someone blacked that eye or you haven't slept."

"I-I-" he croaked, clearing his throat and composing himself, toying with the dregs of his shake, "I've been having a little trouble sleeping, I'll admit. But really, it's nothing serious. It's just been a while since I've had to sleep in an empty apartment, and it's just taking a little while to get used to. It's nothing to worry about." Matthew could have sworn he heard someone sigh his name, but no one had said a thing but him, so he put it down to auditory hallucinations. Thinking that he might look a little funny with one racoon-eye, he wiped the makeup from the other one as well. Catching sight of himself in one of the many mirrors that decorated the restaurant, the Canadian grimaced. There were huge, blue-black hollows around his eyes and they did make him look rather gaunt, "Worse than I thought," he muttered, outlining one with his fingertips.

"Oh, Matt," Katy sighed tearily – she was rather inclined towards waterworks.

"You miss him, don't you?" Emma said sympathetically, her hand giving his a gentle squeeze.

"Francis? Well, we _were_ together for almost three year -"

"_Alfred_!" All three women said at once, exasperated expressions facing Matthew from every direction.

"Yes?" a voice that was definitely not Matthew's emanated from his breast pocket, closely followed by, "Oh. _Shit_."

~====o)0(o====~

"Herr Jones," the blonde in the pencil skirt said in careful, heavily accented English, "You have a meeting with the marketing depart…ment. Was that a _whole_ cake?"

"Yes, is that a problem?" Alfred said, raising another forkful of blueberry cheesecake to his lips. What had previously been a whole, rather large cake was now only a quarter and steadily getting less. "They're going to make me wait a whole hour to get to the damn point; they can wait five minutes for me to finish my cake. Here, sit down and have a slice," Alfred tore a blank doodle-sheet from beside the phone, cut a portion of cake and plopped it onto the page before sliding it across to the chair across from him.

"Herr Jones, I really don't think that that's-" Alfred wordlessly held out a fork which had been produced from his desk and indicated for her to sit. With a sigh, she did so, taking the fork and carefully carving a creamy hollow into the flesh of the cake.

"Call me Alfred, please," he smiled. There were dark circles around his eyes and he looked a little tired, "May I call you Monika?" the German woman nodded, "Monika, can I ask you a question? This may seem a little unorthodox, but I really need some advice, and you seem a like a sensible person to turn to."

Slowly, she nodded, a little wary of exactly where this conversation was going. Her employer hadn't been in any way stable or sane this past fortnight.

"It's just… Have you ever had your best friend fall in love with you?" Again she nodded. So the rumours about her predecessor had been true.

"Really? Whoa. This is a pretty common thing then? What did you do?" the American leant forward eagerly, chewing on more cheesecake – Monika privately thought that her boss was a robot, because there was no other way he could have vacuumed his cake down that fast. There was barely any left.

"Well, that is not quite right. We fell in love with each other, just without saying anything. We'd been friends for five years and she knew something was bothering me. She would not give up until I told her. We had our first date the next week." Alfred's face fell. Was that really the only solution? There had to be another way. But he didn't want to be rude,

"That's great, I'm really happy for you. What happened next? Are you guys still together?"

"I moved to America a month later," she answered flatly, taking a rather aggressive bite of her cake, and Al winced. That had to suck.

"I'm really sorry to hear that," he said, "Are you two doing the long distance thing, or…?" Al's mouth scrunched into a querulous frown.

"Ja, long distance. It's hard, but I know we will see each other again one day," Monika smiled a little fondly out the window before snapping to attention, a faint blush colouring her cheeks, "But that is neither here nor there, Herr Alfred, you have a meeting to go to."

The American man sighed; "Oh, fuck the meeting. Marketing always does its own thing anyway. Do you have a picture of your girlfriend? You're much more interesting than a silly old boardroom."

The German frowned heavily, but fished a phone out of her pocket. The background was of herself in casual clothes, smiling with her arm around an almost monochromatic girl, who was hosting a smile bigger than her own face. They were in a gondola, "She's from Venice," Monika explained.

"You two make a cute couple," he said, smiling fondly at the image before handing the phone back.

"Herr Alfred? May I pose a question, if you don't think it too unprofessional? "Alfred spread his arms wide, welcoming any suggestions she could make.

"You've met me, right? Suggest away!" The phone began to ring, "As soon as I've answered this, it's probably just Marketing wondering where I am," he groaned, pressing answer and speaker at once so that he could carry on eating his cake.

"- _makes me so happy, really it does_." The American stared at the device, white with rage. Was Matthew actually being so petty as to rub it in his face how much better off he was without Alfred? "_I'm so glad you're all doing we- What are you looking at_?"

Leaning forward, the bespectacled blond stared at the phone. What were they looking at? Who were they? What the fuck was going on?

"_Oh, Matthew_," Okay, that was Katy and she sounded seriously upset. What had Matt done? No, that was a stupid thought. Matthew would never purposefully upset Katy, they were friends. So something was wrong and the Ukrainian was worried? That made a strange sort of sense seeing as how this was either a rather elaborate set up or the Canadian had pocket-dialled him. It had happened before; Alfred's number was on speed-dial.

"_Is that makeup_?" Nope. There was no way that it could be makeup. Matt wasn't _that_ gay.

"Cher ami_, either someone blacked that eye or you haven't slept_." He didn't know who either of the last two speakers were, but their words tore into his chest with physical pain. Matthew wasn't sleeping? And it was so bad that he was using _makeup_? Alfred couldn't help but feel responsible.

"_I-I-"_ The American screwed his eyes shut at the vulnerability in that tone. Matt was just scrambling for excuses and they all knew it, "_I've been having a little trouble sleeping, I'll admit. But really, it's nothing serious. It's just been a while since I've had to sleep in an empty apartment, and it's just taking a little while to get used to. It's nothing to worry about_." Nothing to worry about Alfred's All-American ass! Matthew could sleep under any circumstances. The blond remembered a time after finals when the Canadian had been cramming all night and had fallen asleep in the middle of a high school pep-rally. If it was really just that, then he would have no trouble sleeping. No, the only time he ever had trouble sleeping was when he was sick or when he had something on his mind.

"Matthew," Alfred sighed, his fingertips touching the phone. Why couldn't he just hang up? He didn't want to hear this conversation.

"_Oh, Matt_," _Yes, Katy, that's shockingly less than spectacularly unhelpful, thank you._

"_You miss him, don't you_?" _No_, Alfred thought, pushing himself away from the phone as though it had suddenly turned into a rattlesnake, _no, I don't want to hear this_-

"_Francis? Well, we _were_ together for almost three year_ -" _That's not what she means and you _know_ it!_

"_Alfred_!" blared from the phone, making said man jump.

"Yes?" He couldn't help it. It was a natural reaction to hearing his name, "Oh. _Shit_."

"_Excuse me a moment, ladies_-" Matthew sounded like he was trying his damnedest to keep calm.

"_Oh, don't mind us, please_," whomever that woman was, Alfred didn't know if he liked her or hated her, because she was ballsy enough to give Matt shit, but at the same time, this was not a conversation that he wanted to have in front of anyone – he'd conveniently forgotten about Monika.

"Mattie, you're not sleeping-" Alfred started, concern heavy in his tone.

"_And that's really not your concern anymore_," was the snippy reply.

"Yes it is. You're still my friend, even if you don't want to be," the American insisted. It was a childish notion, he knew, but he didn't want to give Matthew up. He just didn't know how to hold onto him.

"_Cute, Jones, but I'm not buying_."

"Please, Mattie, I am begging you. Take care of yourself. For me? Get some sleep?" Distraction to the point of self-destruction was one of Matthew's most prominent flaws. He could become so involved in something that he would forget to do the most basic things like eat or sleep.

"_I don't owe you any favours_," Matthew's cold tone stung worse than a winter's wind.

"Then don't do it for me. Do it for the next guy. The one who loves you as much as you love me," it was a desperate guess, and probably not one that would do him any favours, but Al had to try.

There was a strangled sound from the phone, like someone was choking on something impossibly large and then several loud, harsh mechanical beeps. It took Alfred a few seconds to understand that Matt had hung up on him.

"Monika," he sighed, not looking at her, "Whatever can be cancelled for the rest of the day, cancel it. And get me another cheesecake."

"_Ja_, Herr Alfred," she turned to go, but paused. Al was staring a photo of himself and Matthew, smiling and laughing with their arms around each other. She held her phone in his line of vision so that the picture of herself and her girlfriend was beside the photo frame.

"Is there really so much difference?" she asked quietly.

**WARNING:**

**The next chapter is what earns this baby its M rating. Very graphic, not-entirely-figurative mind-rape. If that's not your cup of tea, then skip the italics at the beginning.**


	11. Dream A Little Dream Of Me

**CrimsonPruCan (Sorry I missed you last chapter), my darling girlfriend (sorry, babe), Zenna95 (be afraid), GreyMoth (That review wasn't from me…), GoAnime (You needn't wait long) and Cynmia (Dude. Give for I your tumblr. Nao.) THANKIES, MY MUNCHKINS!**

**Yay! Thanks guys. Um. I have a few things to say regarding this chapter, foremost of which is; SORRY.  
I kind of plotted this out when I was in one of my moods (see: midnight madness) and then I plotted other events that link up to this that seem to make sense in my head. So, yeah. Generally this is not something I would write. So please, don't make yourself read it if you don't feel you're up to it, just skip the italics. The important thing is how much he freaks out and the implications of it. **

**And one more thing! These are dreams that I've actually had before. The first one scared the ever-loving out of me, I won't lie.**

**Drip Drop Safura**

_Can I love you forever through this?  
Can I trust in you forever through this?  
I don't know how to stop  
How to stop  
These teardrop-oh-ops  
That drip-drop, drip-drop, drip-drop,  
Drip-drop, drip-drop_

"_Mattie? What are you doing?" Alfred gasps as the Canadian's hands wander over his body. Matthew just smiles into the warm skin of Al's neck, kissing it._

"_I'm loving you, Al. I'm showing you how much I love you," he answers, the salty taste of the American's skin on his lips. It feels so good to be able to touch this beautiful body._

"_Mattie, stop," Al says weakly, "I don't like it," he protests before Matthew's lips silence him. Alfred struggles still. He tries to push Matthew off of him, away from him, but it doesn't work. The Canadian's tongue pushes against his lips, forcing them open and invading. Alfred tastes hot, slick and impossibly sweet. Matt moans low in his throat, his hands sliding down the American's sides. Al is gym-crazy. He loves his body and it shows. The Canadian loves it, too. His tongue removes itself from the American's soft mouth and licks a lazy trail down the strong tendons of his neck, making Alfred shiver._

"_Matt," his voice is ragged and breathless, "Matthew stop this. I- I don't love you. I don't want this," his hands push against the Canadian, but he seems to weigh a tonne, and can't be moved._

"_I know. But _I_ love _you_, Alfred. I love you so much," his lips move down the American's bare chest, tongue licking, teeth scraping, leaving red marks on that golden skin and making it his own. _

"_Matthew, please," he begs as large, pale hands take his wrists in an iron grip, pushing them back against the mattress. Those long fingers are clamped like manacles. It's impossible to break free, "Don't do this!"_

_Matthew ignores him, his hips keeping the American's legs from closing as he grinds them together, his breath coming in harsh pants. Alfred's muscles strain as he tries to pull away. _

"_Just let me love you!" the Canadian snaps, pressing another forceful kiss to his lips, tangling their tongues and nipping at Alfred's soft lips until they are bruised and bleeding. _

"_Ah! Fuck, it, Matthew, get off me!" he whimpers, pulling away from those tearing, ripping, snapping teeth._

"_Love me!" Matthew demands, his voice a feral snarl as he shoves three fingers into Alfred's mouth, making him gag. The American tries to bite the fingers, but his friend's cold words stop him dead, "Suck or I do this dry. I'm not waiting for you anymore, Al!" He thrusts his own tongue between the trapped man's lips, tasting both of them at once with a satisfied moan. _

_Alfred gasps as the fingers are torn from his lips and replaced by the Canadian's tongue. One, slick finger thrusts roughly into his body and Alfred arches his back in a feeble attempt to escape the pain, his yell of objection muffled by Matthew's lips. Another finger is added and another, until Alfred's grunts of pain become one seamless keen of anguish. _

"_Don't be that way, Al," the Canadian coos in his ear, teeth dragging over the cartilage as his fingers twist and flex mercilessly, pushing the American open as wide as he can go and then wider still, making a whimpered sob explode from his lungs, "I love you."_

"_Mattie," Alfred's face is pleading, pained and desperate. He can't fight him off, he can't seem to make him stop, "This won't make me love you. Please, please, _please_. Stop this!" Matthew just smiles tenderly, pressing a chaste kiss to his best friend's sullied lips._

"_Love me," he whispers, thrusting forward into Alfred, who screams. Tossing his head back, writhing in agony, he feels like he's being ripped apart, but Matt doesn't stop, doesn't pause. He just carries on, forcing himself in and out of the American's hot, tight body as lewd moans fall from his lips and mingle with Alfred's ceaseless screaming._

He sat bolt upright in bed, sheets twisted around his body, pinning him in place. But even though the dream was over, the screaming didn't stop, and it took Matthew a full five minutes to realise that it was him. Every muscle in his body was trembling. With wide eyes, he clamped a hand over his mouth, taking deep, shuddering breaths through his nose as he felt his bile rising.

He- had he? No. Nononono_no_. It was just a dream. Just a dream. He hadn't really done that to Alfred it was just a horrible, vivid, terrifying nightmare. Or that was what he tried to convince himself of as his own twisted hands clawed at his arms and hysterical sobs racked his body.

But the part of it that scared Matthew the most, as he got up on his shaky legs and stumbled to the bathroom to empty his churning stomach into the toilet bowl, was that up until the very moment it had ended, he had been enjoying that dream.

=o)0(o~

"Matthieu!" Francis said happily, standing to greet his ex with a kiss to each cheek making Arthur scowl and sulk childishly, much though he tried to hide it. The Canadian in question gave a tired, half-pleased sigh and a wan smile.

"Francis," there was sincere warmth in his hoarse voice, "It's good to see you again, and this must be he stopped dead, expression narrowing in confusion.

Arthur sighed, standing and extending a hand, which Matthew shook firmly, "I don't believe I introduced myself the last time we met; Arthur Kirkland, at your service."

"Matthew Williams, a pleasure," the surprised Canadian removed his sunglasses, rubbing his tired eyes he hadn't gone back to sleep after that dream. The very idea of going through that again made him want to speak rainbows.

The Frenchman and the Englishman exchanged worried looks or rather, Francis looked worried, and Arthur did his best not to let sympathy get the better of his guard (There was no way in hell that he was letting that _boy_ steal Francis back. He'd had his turn, damn it).

"_Chouchou_, what is it?" the Frenchman asked in open concern, his fingers touching the back of Matt's hand while his lover's glare melted a hole in the glass table top.

"Just a little trouble sleeping," the Canadian smiled thinly, retracting his hand and balling white-knuckled fists in his lap. He even went so far as to force a laugh, which fell flat in the silence.

"Matthieu," the elder blonde's tone was serious as poison, "Where is Alfred? I did invite him, too."

The Canadian had been hoping against hope that no-one would bring that up. But luck seemed to hate his guts, so he sighed and fidgeted with his own fingers, twisting them about each other as he considered how best to phrase his answer,

"Alfred and I," his broken heart thudded painfully, "Well, we're not exactly in contact at the moment." Heartache was a very real sensation. Like love-sickness. All those stupid metaphors that surrounded love were so very painful, and all so horribly true. It felt like someone (that someone being one Alfred Franklin Jones) had torn the beating organ straight from his chest, crushed it between unfeeling palms and then shoved it back in the wrong way around with his fingerprints all over it. There was no place in his heart that Al hadn't touched.

Arthur winced, and Francis pressed a hand to his own chest, the other giving the Englishman's finger's a gentle squeeze.

"Would you like to talk about it?" surprisingly it was Arthur who spoke, and Matthew's answering smile, though weak, was sincere,

"No, thank you. I don't think I can do that just yet without publically humiliating myself. Just know that.. Ah, this is still embarrassing; but at least I'm not lying about my feelings anymore," he gave Francis' hand a pat and Arthur's scowl returned with a vengeance. Another fake laugh staccato notes of hysteria ever-present tumbled from Matt's lips, "Arthur, relax. You can make him happier than I ever could. And Francis, I am so sorry for putting you through what I did." The Englishman's frown deepened for a moment before falling away, his finger's threading through Francis', who smiled faintly.

"It's nothing. Without you, I would never have met Arthur."

"I'm glad. You deserve happiness, the both of you do," the attentive friend was once more at the fore; smiling, chatting, making sure that everyone else was okay.

"What about you? Don't you deserve happiness?" Again, it was Arthur who spoke, and Matt got the sneaking suspicion that maybe, just maybe, the Englishman didn't hate him.

"I'll get back to you on that one," he sighed, "But there is something that I'd like to ask the both of you, while we're all here."

=o)0(o~

"_Matthew! I love you, please, come back! Don't do this!" Alfred screams, the icy wind blowing his hair back and stinging tears from his eyes. He's reaching out to the other man, who has his arms spread like Christ on the cross there are even stigmata on his hands and on his forehead. The blood on his face drips onto his shirt and forms dark, tangled rat-tails in his hair. _

"_You're lying to me!" he yells back, the blood from the holes in his palms falling into open air. There are tears on his face as well, and it makes Alfred's heart ache to see them. _

"_No, I'm not! Mattie, please! Let me love you! I'll love you! I promise," Alfred takes a step forward and Matt smiles sadly at him. The wind whips at their clothing it's always a little breezy at the top of the Hero Corp. building. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Al reminds himself that the building is twelve storeys high. _

"_It's too late for that, Al," even though Mattie's speaking quietly, he's still perfectly audible. Pressing his fingers to his lips his blows the American a kiss before leaning back with a rapturous expression on his face, "Bye, Al." Matthew takes a half-step backwards and topples off the edge of the building. _

"NO!_" Alfred roars, rushing to the edge, almost falling himself in his attempt to reach his friend. His fingers brush against the Canadian's as he grabs and misses_.

It was like waking up after a falling dream, the intense feeling of colliding with the mattress ran in little after-shocks through his body. Alfred's heart was beating in his throat as though he'd been running for his life, and his breath burnt in his lungs.

=o)0(o~

"Matthew! Matthew Williams! You open this fucking door _right now_! We need to talk about this!" Alfred hollered, hammering on the wood of the Canadian's apartment door it was a wonder that none of his neighbours had complained about the noise.

There was a scratch and a metallic rattle, and vicious relief surged through his chest as the door opened.

Francis.

Alfred's heart sank.

"I'm afraid you've just missed him," the Frenchman said coolly, and it occurred to the American that if looks could kill, he'd be dead. He'd never approved of a single one of Matthew's boyfriends, and they never seemed to like him in the slightest in retrospect, that actually made quite a lot of sense but none had disliked him quite so much as Francis did, and the feeling was mutual. He hadn't approved of the communists, or the egotist, but Francis was just too charming for his own good, and Al didn't like it. Nor did he like how serious things had gotten between the two of them. He'd always known that Francis was no good.

"Where did he go? When will he be back?" The Frenchman scowled.

"Even if I knew, I wouldn't tell you. He just asked me to finish his lease for him, so that's what I'm doing," the Frenchman shrugged, and started to shut the door, but Al stopped him.

"I always knew you were going to hurt him," the American snapped, "I'm trying to fix this. Now tell me where his went."

Francis couldn't stop his derisive laughter, "Don't play the hero, Alfred Jones, you are the villain of this tale. I did not hurt Matthieu. You did. Are you really so blind that you didn't see how much he loves you?"

Alfred's mouth opened and closed in a wordless display of outrage. Turning on his heel, he stalked back down the corridor in high dudgeon.

He had grabbed, and he had missed.


	12. Analyse That

**Tavin, my wonderful girlfriend, Zenna95, Rani of KuchNahi, GreyMoth, CrimsonPruCan, Cacow, GoAnime and mofalle,. You guys are the bestest. **

**Any and all queries about the dreams will be answered on Friday, so shoot. And there are several of you I actually want to have a chat with. Time to get on my real account. Bugger. I think I've forgotten the password.**

**ALSO. This is the last of the pre-typed chapters, so updates might be a little slower from now on. Expect something to do with Livin' On A Prayer and cowboys (I'm going barn dancing on Saturday. I freaking love barn dancing. I'm good at it, too) though not necessarily in the same fic. Here's hoping my stories don't get deleted. If they do, I'll tumblr them. Links in the profile.**

**Don't You Want Me –Glee version  
Amore – Nightcore III  
I Melt With You - Sugarcult  
Hallelujah – Leonard Cohen  
A Million Ways To Be Cruel – OK GO  
This Love – Maroon 5**

"It was the most horrific _nightmare_," Matthew whispered into his blue-tooth headset as he stared at the river of tar that wended its way before him. White lines ticked by, marking the distance travelled the same way the ticking of a clock marks the seconds that have passed.

"_I know, Matthew_," Madeline said in her most comforting tone (which wasn't all that comforting, but she was trying, and that was the whole point), "_It sounds terrible, and I'm so sorry you had to go through that, dear. But at least we know that the meaning of it is quite clear_."

Blinking, the man cocked his head to one side – an automatic reaction, even if his mother couldn't actually see him, "It was a disgusting dream and I feel like a disgusting person for having it. I cannot believe my subconscious managed to vomit up that monster, but I hardly see what meaning it could possibly have outside of that," he muttered bitterly, feeling the intense desire to have yet another scalding hot shower. Even though he was quite sure that he'd lost more than one layer of skin in his frantic scrubbing, at least he felt a little better after a shower.

"_I taught you better than that_," she chided gently, "_You obviously feel as though you're forcing your feelings onto that boy_, _and you feel guilty about it_," she hadn't called Alfred by his first name in quite some time.

"But I _enjoyed_ it," he whispered, utterly ashamed of himself. It made him feel sick just thinking about how disturbingly pleasant that had been until he'd woken up and realised what he had been doing.

"_Well, yes, Matthew, it was a sex dream, _of course_ you enjoyed it_," was the sharp response, and he could feel himself blush. Of course. Mothers seemed innately blessed with the ability to point out those obvious little things that we ourselves have missed, "_Pierre is calling me, dear. You'll let me know when you arrive, won't you?"_

"Of course, Maman, I love you," the Canadian smiled, hanging up to the strains of 'I love you, too.' A sigh escaped him as he looked at the long straight of tar before him. Driving was one of Matt's least favourite activities. Especially long-distance driving. It was tiring and boring. He couldn't look at anything but the road, and the radio scared him a little bit at the moment. Most of his favourite singers favoured lovelorn ballads, and he was _not_ in the mood to listen Mariah Carey's _We Belong Together _right now. Not after everything that had happened with Alfred (Alfred had a beautiful, husky singing voice and Matthew would rope him into karaoke whenever he could).

With another sigh, Matt flicked the radio on – surely anything was better than the oppressive silence of his own mind – and instantly regretted it.

_Don't – Don't you want me?-_

He changed the station faster than he believed himself capable of.

_Oh, darlin', you're a million ways to be cruel~_

"You've got that right," the Canadian muttered, changing the station again.

_Love is not a victory march~ It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah~_

Matthew groaned, resisting the urge to slam his head into a steering-wheel. Was there anything that was _not_ a love song? As it turns out, there was, but that was scream metal.

_Making love to you was never second best~ _

Nope_._

_No one could love you more, amore, amor. _

Nope

_This love has taken its toll on me-_

There was a loud click as Matthew turned off the radio, sighing. Alfred would have loved every single one of those songs. Alfred would have been singing along, with one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the back of Matt's chair.

"_Come on, Mattie," a lazy grin would spread across his face; that one that always made the Canadian's heart beat faster, "If I have to sing, then so do you."_

"_You don't have to if you don't want to," the only place Matt ever really sang was the shower, and he was perfectly happy with that. _

"_Yeah, but you want me to,"_ Why did his smile have to be so cheeky, honest and breathtakingly beautiful all at once? Matthew sighed happily. It would be painful when he stopped imagining, but it was much better than trying to forget. Forgetting was hard, but he'd been imagining since he was thirteen years old, and he'd gotten good at it.

"_You know I do," he would tease, his hand would rest on Alfred's knee, and the American would smile that special smile that was just for him; the one that curled and dimpled at the corner like he was trying not to laugh. The one that Matthew had only ever seen directed at him and never at any of the girls the American dated. _

_Alfred's hand would wander down his arm to sit over the Canadian's on his knee. Their fingers would twist together, and Al would give a little squeeze. They would laugh and eventually Matt would relent and they'd sing along to whichever top 40 hit was on the radio. _

But in the back of his mind, the dark seed of that dream still festered.

~====o)0(o====~

Monika tapped her pencil on the desk, staring down at the card that had been there since after her (speedy-Gonzalez-got-nuthin'-on-this) brief lunch break. It was a business card, and written on the back in what looked remarkable like the same ink that was used to print the front were the words;

_You know he needs it_.

Looking across the hallway into Alfred's glass office, she frowned. Her employer was currently slumped over his desk, looking more like a murder-victim than he really had any right to, and staring at that stupid photo. He cancelled all his appointments and refused to go to any meetings. She had advised the appropriate parties and councils to do what was best for the company, seeing as it was becoming painfully obvious that Matthew had never let Alfred anywhere _near_ the formalities of running a business.

Occasionally, he would throw things.

Whoever had written on that card knew the situation as well as she did. With a sigh, and a furtive glance at the glass office beside hers, Monika picked up the phone and dialled the number that was printed in forest green ink.

~====o)0(o====~

He wasn't entirely sure how he had ended up on a therapist's couch at two in the afternoon on a Thursday, but somehow, he had. Alfred glanced at the man sitting across from him, who was smiling calmly, his hands folded in his lap.

"Aren't you supposed to be writing shit down?" he asked, eyes flicking back to the moulded ceiling.

"No," was the pleasantly accented answer, "That might distract me from what you're saying."

"Right. What am I supposed to talk about here? Do you ask questions?" Now the American was just stalling for time.

"Whatever happens to be on your mind, Mr Jones, we can talk about the weather if you feel that way inclined," the man was still smiling as though they were having afternoon tea, "Why don't we start with why you're here?"

"Call me Alfred," he grunted, and then he frowned, "Why I'm here? I'm here because my secretary insisted I go out to lunch and then dropped me off here afterwards. She said she'd be back in about two hours."

"Ah, so you have no idea why you're here, then?" His tone of voice was still perfectly calm and pleasant.

"Not really. Though I suppose it could have something to do with how unproductive I've been at work lately," he trailed off, thinking a touch guiltily about what he calculated was the metric shit-tonne of paperwork he had not done this week alone.

"Alright, that's probably it. So you feel unproductive?"

"Yeah, I guess I do. I mean, I feel like I'm missing something. I just can't seem to do anything properly without Mattie. He doesn't even have to do anything, just so long as I know he has my back, I can do anything. I don't have that anymore,"

"Because your friend isn't there anymore?" he prompted.

"My _best_ friend," the American corrected, describing his words with his hands, "Twenty-five years of friendship and he just up and leaves me! I mean, I don't really think I'm mad at him. Just hurt. I don't get it. He's in love with me, you see. I just… I don't understand. Which is incredibly frustrating, because I know for a fact that I'm not as stupid as everyone says I am. I'm a little oblivious, yeah. But I'm not stupid. And I just don't get it. We've never let anything come between us. Not his boyfriends, or my girlfriends. Not family or distance or anything. And now he's in love with me and he doesn't want to see me anymore. Because I'm _hurting_ him. I don't want to hurt him, but I don't want him to go. I just don't get what I'm supposed to do without him."

"Would you say that you were dependent on each other?"

"Yeah, for a lot of things. Mostly just the usual friend stuff, y'know? Hanging out, laughing, relaxing. But I've always been there for him. If he needs me, or if he wants me to come over, all he has to do is ask. And sometimes he didn't even have to ask. We've been having joint birthday parties since age two the only way I could possibly know the guy any better is biblically. Which I now realise is what he wants, but hey," he shrugged tiredly, "I don't see what I can do about that."

"Ah. You say that you never let girlfriends or boyfriends get in the way?"

"Nope," Alfred grinned happily, "Bros before hos and all that. Though I guess Mattie's would be bros before man-hos."

"Why don't you tell me what you look for in a girlfriend?"

"Uh, sure, why not," the American shrugged, he was the chatty type after all, "Tall, I suppose. I don't want someone I have to bend double to kiss. Long legs are part of that. I'm a bit iffy on long hair; it's kind of a pain. I mean, I have woken up too many times with some chick's 'do all over my face. It's not fun. A bob is nice, though. I suppose this is a little odd, but I'm completely ambivalent when it comes to chesticles. I don't mind if she has boobs the size of beach balls or if she's a member of the itty bitty titty committee. As long as she isn't fat. I'm a bit fat-phobic. I was a chubby kid, and I've been petrified of being fat again ever since I lost the extra weight. Hmmm. What else? I'm quite partial to blondes and red-heads. I like the colour, especially a mix. Yeah, that's really pretty, and I like blue eyes, dark blue. I'm kind of picky, I guess, but I have yet to meet a girl that meets those exact specifications."

"You keep holding out," Those specifications sounded awfully familiar, "What about personality?"

"Personality…" He trailed off, lips pursed, "That's…. I think… What I really want is someone who'll let me be who I am, but isn't shy about putting me in my place when I get a little crazy. Someone who I can depend on, but also knows that I'm there for them. Someone strong, but sensitive – I sound like a romance novel. The only issue is, every time I meet a woman with that kind of personality, she kind of, I don't know. She comes over as too forceful, and that scares me. Or offends me, which trust me, is not easy. I just… It's the wrong kind of strong, if you understand? I generally end up dating really bland girls."

"I think I do. There are all kinds of psychological reasons behind that, but this is your time to talk," that same, comforting tone of voice made Alfred smile.

"Thanks, doc. Hey," he paused, twisting in his seat to face the therapist directly, "Do you know anything about dreams?"

The other man smiled, "A little, yes. It there a dream that you want to talk about?"

"Mmm," The American hummed, nodding, "I had a really weird one the other day. It was about Matthew – you know, my best friend? We were on top of our building and he was holding his arms out like he was being crucified, he had the stigmata and everything. I was begging him not to, but he jumped. I tried to catch him, and I almost did, but I missed," Sadness coloured his tone a sombre blue-grey, "Tell me what you know about dreaming, doc."

"Well, firstly, are you a religious man, Alfred?"

"Yeah," he answered slowly, "Both my parents are both Catholic, and… I've lapsed. I still believe, I just don't agree with what some of the more overzealous members of the faith, so I prefer not to be associated with them. A few bad apples and people think the whole barrel's rotten," Al sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"It's the same with any group of people, I'm afraid, religious or otherwise," the doctor said heavily, "But that helps a lot. Would you say that Matthew is a martyr?"

"Patron Saint of workaholics," Alfred nodded his agreement.

"And is there something between the two of you that you feel guilty about? Something that you may view as being your fault?"

"I just wonder if his feelings for me are my fault. I keep asking myself if I lead him on. It's a question that I can't answer and it's really disconcerting," the worried frown that had grown over the American's face like mould was once more infecting his features.

"Alright, that explains the Christ-like representation. Stop me if I'm wrong; this is only my theory, but are you likening the separation, as it were, to Matthew paying for what you view as your sins?"

"That sounds about right, yeah," Alfred nodded slowly, "But that doesn't explain why he jumped."

"Pardon?"

"He jumped. I didn't make him, I didn't force him; it was completely his choice. Suicide is the ultimate selfish act. If he's being so self-sacrificing, why is he being so selfish?"

The therapist gave Alfred a look that made it quite clear that no answer was forthcoming.

"And our time is up, Alfred. Thank you very much for coming, or rather thank your secretary. I would really appreciate it if you would come again sometime, but that is completely up to you. If you feel that you would like to talk some more, just give me a call."

"Thanks, doc," Alfred got up, shaking the slightly shorter man's hand vigorously, "I'll do that for sure. You know, your name sounds awfully familiar."

"Does it?" the man smiled benignly, "It's a syrup brand."

"Oh, that explains it," the American said, voice a little more subdued, "Matt eats a lot of syrup."

~====o)0(o====~

"What now, Herr Alfred?" Monika asked as he folded himself into the back seat of the car she was driving.

"Now we catch him before he falls," Alfred said, a determined light in his eyes that made the German woman think that perhaps therapy had not been such a fantastic idea after all.


	13. A Lonely Road

**Guess who capped, capped, capped, capped again? My internet's capped, capped, capped, capped again. I also have impetigo (don't Google it. It's disgusting), but I'm getting better, so that's good. **

**Welcome home woodsy! She's back from university, guys! And I'm not supposed to see her because I'm ridonkulously infectious. Bugger. Review thanks when I get my net back :) Thank you to woodbyne for posting and all of you for reading/reviewing/silently stalking, you do make my day. **

**As for the content of this chapter… I have no excuses.**

He'd been driving for a very long time. Too long. He just wanted to get out of this stupid city, this stupid country. He just wanted to go home and hug his mother. Maybe he should go camping? Yes. Somewhere away from people, somewhere where he could just be.

That would be nice.

It was with those thoughts in mind, and with the little white lines ticking by, that Matthew began to drift off.

~====o)0(o====~

"Thanks for seeing me again at such short notice," Alfred smiled, shaking the therapist's hand warmly, "I mean, usually I'd talk to Mattie about this, but, y'know…" The American trailed off sadly, and the other man smiled in a comfortingly paternal fashion, giving Al's arm a reassuring squeeze,

"I understand. You can talk about anything with me, Alfred, it's quite alright."

"So," the American sat hunched over on the couch, elbows on his knees and hands clasped, "I, uh, I had a date last night. It was lots of fun. We went out, talked about her dogs and ate tofu. I'm not all that fond of dogs and I fucking hate tofu. But I tried to be nice, and that was going really great for me, because she invited me back to her place for organic Tibetan tea with dairy-free yak butter – this girl is seriously loony-toons and really not my type – and I said yes. Stupid, I know, but I seriously need to get laid." _At least_, the therapist thought to himself, _he has the good grace to look sheepish about it_.

"Go on," he prompted.

"So anyway, I went to her place and we were having fun, her dogs were outside so I didn't have to deal with them. And then when it came down to it… I… er," Alfred looked to the side, face beet red. He wouldn't have been as embarrassed talking about this with Matthew. They were best friends, after all. They told each other everything. From the time Alfred had walked in on his parents getting it on, to Matthew admitting that he'd cheated on a test. From the time Al broke a neighbour's window to Matt's crush on their math teacher, "There was a problem."

"Premature ejaculation is nothing to be ashamed of, Alfred."

Staring fixedly at the floor, Al muttered, "That wouldn't be a problem if I could actually get it up."

"Oh."

"I checked. There's no family history of …_Erectile dysfunction_," he spat the last two words through gritted teeth, "By the way, we're going to need a whole session at least to go through the things I found out about my parents' sex life that I never, _ever_ wanted to know. And I hope to high Heaven that I'm at least another twenty-five years away from any little blue pills."

"Quite rightly so. Tell me, Alfred, if you wouldn't mind, when was the last time that you masturbated?"

If it was at all possible for the American to get any redder than he already was, he did, "Masturbated? Uh. Not for a while. I – this isn't awkward at all – I usually have a lady friend to help me out."

"Why don't you try that? Fantasy can prove a remarkable remedy for that kind of thing. I think a large part of your problem is that you're under a lot of stress lately, so your libido has taken a dip. Have a relaxing evening in," the therapist gave a conspiratorial little nod and a half smile, "Try thinking about all the things that make up your perfect partner."

"Are you even qualified to be advising me here?" Alfred asked in a very small voice, embarrassment blaring from his cheeks as he looked anywhere but the psychologist.

"It's not a plaque I keep on my wall, but yes, one of my fields of study was the necessity of sexual intercourse in society and its effect on an individual."

"You're a sex therapist?" the American asked blankly.

"Qualified, but not practising."

"Good God."

~====o)0(o====~

Preparing to jerk off took a lot of the romance out of some good, old-fashioned self-loving. On the other hand – so to speak – it was a lot easier to clean up afterwards, and if the occasion was properly prepared for, then he wouldn't have that moment where he stepped bare-foot in something damp and sticky. That was the major problem with masturbation.

Of course, Alfred was sheepishly aware that he hadn't really done the solo tango in quite some time.

That would be great if it worked.

Alfred let hot water cascade down over his back. What a fine state of affairs this was; without Mattie he couldn't even get hard.

Neither of them had ever had problems before. Matthew, as far as Alfred was aware – which was reasonably – enjoyed a very healthy, active sex life. If that one time he'd walked in on Matt and Francis was anything to go by. It was thanks to that occasion that the American knew what his best friend's cum face looked like.

_He'd just let himself in for a surprise visit and was shrugging out of his jacket. The place seemed empty. Alfred was just shrugged out of his jacket, put some coffee on and went to clear the rooms. Living room; clear. Bedroom; Sweet Mother of Mercy. Matthew's legs were locked around the Frenchman's waist and they were both arched together, moving in a slow tandem of thrusting. _

_On a level of traumatisation, it was slightly below seeing his parents. _

_At that point, Francis must have given a particularly hard thrust, because Matt's head fell back, mouth open in a loud moan as his nails scraped down the Frenchman's back. Alfred had never been more grateful that he couldn't see Francis' face than when he repeated the movement, leaning forward with his head lowered, drawing another guttural moan and a gasp from his best friend. The Canadian's hands dropped to fist in the bedclothes as Francis picked up the pace. The sounds the pair were making (they had been keeping quite) now filled the room in stereo. The slap of flesh on flesh bounced off the walls, mingling with echoing moans, groans, curses and gasps. _

_Alfred couldn't move. He was rooted to the spot in shock. _

_Matthew's gaze rested on the blond in the doorway, his eyes glazed with lust and a debauched flush covering his face. Matt's chest heaved; his lips bruised and open. Al's mouth was suddenly very, very dry. The American and the Canadian stared each other in the face for what must have been only twenty seconds, even if it did feel so much longer than that. _

_The Canuck's eyes fluttered, his body tensing and arching into Francis, his face contorting in pure pleasure as he let out a strangled yell of, "Oh, God, _Al_-mighty"_

Alfred stared at the cum in his hand with a turbulent mixture of feelings. Sadness (le petit mort; nothing to worry about), confusion (he hadn't just… had he?), excitement (no little blue pills for him!), panic (yes, he had. He had just spanked one off to the image of Mattie's cum face) and strangely, anger.

"You," he glared accusingly at his spent cock, "Have the _worst_ timing."

~====o)0(o====~

BLAAAAAR BLAAAAAAR BLAAAAAAAAAAAR. An urgent noise. Alarm clock? Bright light. Daylight? Getting brighter and brighter. _BLAAAAAAAR!_

A truck.

"_Shit_!" Pull, pull, turning out of the path of the truck. A moment of relief.

"_FUCK_!" vision came in flashes like bad TV.

Black. Car upside down, tumbling, thumping, rolling. Black. Hit something solid. Weightless. Black. Slam. Jolt. Right way around. Bang. Tree. White. Pain. Blurry vision, red. Bright light.

"Sir? Sir? Are you alright in there? Somebody call 911!"


	14. Still Not Gay

**I **_**told**_** you not to Google impetigo! Do you listen? No. My case is not that bad and it's clearing up fast. I love you all, my reviewers! There will be no amnesia! Just saying that now. **

**GoAnime, Zenna95, hetarynnies, Cynmia, Shiruvia, mofalle, the lovely GreyMoth, IAmACat, themagnificent Me, KajiMori, IliveinIthilien, SaraBarnes, xXthenextbookworkXx and Tell me, thank you all so much!**

**Congratulations to Cynmia who correctly guessed the identity of Alfred's therapist, and to woodbyne, because she posted this, talked me through it and let me sit on her legs while I typed. Seriously, guys, without her, I would be on permanent writer's block. **

**NOTE: In the last chapter, when Matthew said "Dear God, **_**Al**_**-mighty." No prises for guessing what he almost said.**

"I. Am. _Not_. Gay!"

"I never said that you were, Alfred, please sit down," the psychologist said calmly, though his hands were white-knuckled on the arms of his chair.

"You didn't, but you implied it! And it's not true! I'm not gay! " Alfred was yelling now, hands alternating between balled fists and jabbing fingers pointing accusingly at the professional in the chair.

"You're not homophobic-"

"_OF COURSE NOT_! Matthew is my _best friend_! I am not a homophobe! What you don't seem to understand, Doc, is that I am not gay," the American's face was contorted with frustration, angry tears beginning to well up in the corners of his eyes. It was odd to see Alfred, who though casual, was usually so well groomed, like this. His hair was in disarray, sticking up where he had been running his hands through it. His eyes were sharp and wild, aiming their accusing stare at whomever he could; at this moment in time, his therapist. He was on his feet, pacing like a caged tiger, arms swinging, searching, looking for the comfort that he knew wasn't there anymore.

"Mr Jones, please take your seat." His voice wasn't loud but there was a ring of authority in his tone that gave the American pause. Slowly, as though he were gauging how much power the other man truly exerted here, he backed off. Baser instinct won out and Alfred grudgingly resumed his seat.

"Sorry bout that, doc. It's just.. It's just that I'm not. I am not gay. This isn't about sexuality, I couldn't really care less if I were gay or not, and neither will anyone who matters. This is about identity. I have never identified as gay, I have never looked at another man in a sexual way. I am a straight guy. Sexuality is one of the chief identifiers in life, it is an essential part of who you are, so much of society these days is dependent on sexuality. I am sure of myself and who I am. I am pretty damn sure about who I am."

"Right, so you don't think you can be gay because you already know who you are?"

"You know that shrinky thing where you tell me what I just said is irritating as fuck."

"I'm quite aware of that, Alfred. But what surprises me is your non-acceptance of change."

"My non-acceptance?" the American tilted his head, puzzled by the line of argument, "I am a very accepting person. I accept change. But one cannot note the variables in an experiment without having non-variables. I am a non-variable."

"You are twenty-six. What about the future? Settling down, having a family and a long-term partner? All of those things require a lot of permanent change."

"I am perfectly aware of that, doctor," Alfred said coolly, "But when I find the woman I love – don't think I missed that you keep saying partner-"

"Force of habit, my apologies."

"_When I find the woman I love_. Change won't be a problem, because we'll love each other, so changing for her won't be an issue. There will be no one who loves me more, and I'll trust in that," a faint, nostalgic smile crossed his lips.

"What about Matthew?"

"What _about_ Mattie?" there was a dangerous note to Alfred's voice; the sound of thin ice cracking.

"Well it seems to me, and this is not my professional opinion, that when someone has to leave you in order to escape the pain of unrequited feelings, then they must truly love you, especially after staying with you for so long."

"I know," taking off his glasses, Alfred sighed heavily, the weight of the world resting on his bowed shoulders, "Believe me, I know. All the things that … Hindsight is twenty-twenty, right? All the things I used to think were just friendly were.. more. I was his first kiss, you know? The first person he came out to. Our friendship has destroyed more than one of my relationships, and every single one of his," looking up at the man across from him, the American's blue eyes seemed so vulnerable and childlike without their glass shield, and at the same time, so world-weary, "But I just can't. I can't change who I am."

"Can't or won't?"

"The _fuck_ university did you go to?" the taller man demanded, "What kind of question is that? I _said_ can't, I _meant_ can't. I _cannot_ do it."

"Why on earth not?" was the reasonably toned reply.

"Think about Mattie. What if I tried? What if I wasn't sure, and I tried? What would that do to him? If he really loves me, if I've been hurting him all this time, then what would that do to him? I – I can't give him false hope only to take it away again. It would destroy him. Look at my other relationships. The longest one I've been in since I was eighteen was six months, and I was seeing three other girls during that time. He knows what I'm like. He should know that I wouldn't want him just on the grounds of that he's my best friend, and I don't want him to turn into one of my girls. And what if I just up and changed my mind? What if I hurt him more than I already have done? I've broken his heart so easily without even knowing it and – and- and why would I want to break it on purpose? Why would I risk hurting him like that? Just because I- I. I don't know. I'm not gay. I can't be gay. Especially not for Mattie."

"That's a sound argument. You've given this a lot of thought."

"He's my best friend."

"You love him."

"Of course I love him! Matthew's like… like… aw, fuck analogies. We're two parts to a whole," blue eyes widened, and Alfred's mouth fell open. "Of _course_ I love him," he whispered bemusedly, "No one knows me better. He's always there for me. He always puts me first. He would never hurt me. I would never hurt him. I know him better than anyone. I'll always be.. there for… I need to be in Canada. Now."

"Pardon?" the psychologist asked, brows furrowed in confusion.

"I'm still not gay, doc, but I think I owe Mattie a chat, so.. uh, I'll catch you when I catch you."

"Good luck, Alfred," the other man smiled, slightly confused.

"Thanks. You know," the American paused halfway out the door, "I swear I know your name from somewhere. It's driving me crazy."

"_Goodbye_, Alfred."

"Bye, doc!"

Smiling quietly, the good doctor walked back to his desk, fingers tapping at the dark wood. As far as therapist's offices went, it was fairly stereotypical. Beige, red and brown themed interior, a desk, a leather armchair (handed down through generations; its twin was at home) and lots of books accompanied the couch that the American had just been occupying.

Easing himself into the chair behind his desk and feeling like a king on his throne, he picked up a phone, dialling a number as his faint smile grew to a pronounced smirk. The phone rang twice before it was answered.

"Hello, dear heart, yes, it's me. Inception successful, shall we have tea? _Je t'aime aussi, mon coeur_," Arthur Kirkland, PhD, picked up his jacket and wandered out of his office, looking forward to seeing his lover again. He did enjoy making headway with patients.

~====o)0(o====~

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep-Beep-_Beep-Beep-Beep_.

"He's waking up!"

"Oh thank God!"

"Don't crowd him!"

"Al? Alfred?" Matthew asked groggily.


	15. Near Miss

**SandiaHero, IAmACat, xXthenextbookwormXx, mofalle, GoAnime, Lucia Liddell, hetarynnies, CrimsonPruCan, otakupricessluna, SaraBarnes, thankies everyone, I love you all muchly! **

**I'm all better now, aside from the slight scar on my face, but that should go away soon, too. No more Gorgon face! Thankies also to woodbyne who literally sat with me, poking me with a stick while I wrote this. Literally. I'm not joking. Okay, so the stick was her finger, but still. **

Madeline's smile slipped slightly when the first words out of her son's mouth were for Alfred rather than her. It was painful to see her baby so banged up. There was tape over his nose to keep it from moving (Matthew had a history of getting his nose broken, but this was the first time since high school) as well as stitches and gauze over the right side of his face and everything was a livid shade of red-purple bruising.

"No, Matthew, it's me," she said quietly, hesitant fingers pushing his hair back from his face. He could have died. It was a miracle of seatbelts that he'd managed to come out of that crash with only a broken nose and a lot of bruises. The airbag and the steering wheel had done the most damage, and aside from his face and a collection of cuts, scrapes and bruises over the rest of his body, Matt had come off pretty well. Better than his car, at any rate.

"Maman? Why-? Oh. It was just a dream, then," his smile wobbled a little, "Um. I feel fine, can I go now? How's my car?"

"Totalled, dear. You rolled it down a hill and crashed it into a tree," she said lightly, her hand seeking his, "And you seem fine, which hardly seems plausible."

"At least the eighteen-wheeler I was trying to avoid didn't hit me," Matt sighed, trying to lighten the mood as he squeezed his mother's fingers affectionately. Madeline's hands were thin and cold, her skin was soft and there were few wrinkles.

"You could have been killed-"

"I'm trying really hard not to think about that," he interrupted. Looking down at his arms, they were covered in bruises and he could almost feel the way his muscles would ache when the painkillers wore off.

"I'm sorry dear. Come on, you've been here long enough. The doctors kept you overnight to make sure you weren't concussed. A quick check-up and we can sign out," Madeline touched his arm, patting it gently before pressing the call button. It didn't take long for someone to stick her head through the curtain of blue fabric that cordoned them off from the rest of the ward.

Matthew sighed heavily. He could feel a headache coming on in the wake of steadily fading painkillers.

"Are you alright, Matthew?" his mother asked quietly.

"What do you _think_?" he answered shortly.

"Ahem," the doctor coughed, "It's good to see you awake Mr Williams, Mrs Williams, if you would give us a moment, I need to do a few quick tests."

With a sad look, Madeline left the 'room', her lips pursed worriedly.

"So, Mr Williams, how are you feeling?" The doctor asked, "Follow my finger with your eyes, please."

"Like I drove into a tree," he sighed, watching her finger.

"Well, that's to be expected;" she smiled, "What's your best friend's name?"

"Alfred Fredrick Jones, born on the fourth of July, 1984. His favourite colour is blue, mine is red. My memory is fine, thank you, or would you like his phone number, too? You wouldn't be the first."

"Uh.. No.. thank you, sir, that will be fine. You can leave now. Here's a scrip for some pain medication, take one tablet three times a day and keep your cuts clean. You know how to deal with that nose?"

"Fourth time I've had it broken. Though this is the first time I've been beat by an inanimate object," Matthew gave a half smile, trying to make up for his earlier snappishness.

The doctor relaxed, "I'm going to have your mother watch for any personality changes, is that alright? You hit your head pretty hard."

"Sure. She wouldn't really know and I'm not going to be staying with her all that long, but, sure," his half smile remained resolutely in place, fixed as though it were carved into his face.

"Oh. Then, is there anyone I should call? Your best friend, maybe? You seem to know him pretty well," her answering smile was half-hopeful.

"Yeah. You are the last person he wants to hear about this from. My mother will call you."

~====o)0(o====~

Madeline answered the pounding on her door with a scowl on her face, not surprised in the least by the American on her doorstep, much as she would rather he wasn't there.

"Good morning, Jones," her smile was anything but friendly. It was, in fact, subliminally telling him to fuck off and die a slow and horribly painful death by the side of the road.

"Good morning, Mrs Trudeau, is Mattie at home? He and I need to have a talk," Alfred's smile was equally frigid and his eyes kept darting to the house behind her, wanting to get inside. He wanted to find Matthew, and if he had to tear apart the ice-queen's home to do it, he would.

"No, Matthew is not here, and even if he were, I wouldn't let him see you," Madeline answered pleasantly.

"He's a grown man. He can make his own decisions about which he will and will not see, ma'am," the smile was dropped in favour of an angry scowl.

"Then don't you think you should respect my son's wishes and not inflict your presence upon him, Mr Jones?" she asked sweetly, pushing the door closed.

"Ow!" Alfred gritted his teeth as the door closed on his foot, keeping it open, "Look, lady, I'm trying to fix this. I'm trying to make this work. I want Matt to be happy just as much as you do, and if I'd known how he felt about me… I don't know what I would have done, but it would have been different. Don't I get a second chance?"

"You have used your second chances, Mr Jones. You have broken my Matthew's heart so many times. So many. Do you know what it does to a mother to see that happen to her child?" the Canadian woman asked bitterly, opening the door fully so that she could properly chastise the American, "Do you know what it's like to hear him crying and not being able to do anything because you know it's not you he wants comfort from?"

"No," he swallowed thickly, "I don't. And I'm probably the worst person he could have fallen for. I just. I don't think I can make him happy the way he wants, or the way I want. So I want to apologise. I just… There are some things that need to be settled between us before we part ways."

"Oh." Madeline hadn't expected Alfred to be so reasonable. Though, she supposed, the rash, unthinking child she had known must have grown into a man at some point.

"Um. Yeah. So… is he here or has he fucked off to the backwoods already?" Al asked, running a hand through his hair.

"How did you-?"

"Whenever Mattie gets really upset, he gets really anti-people and finds some secluded place in the middle of God's ass nowhere to commune with the trees. We've known each other our whole lives. I like to think that the fact that he wanted to get into my pants was the only thing I didn't know about him," looking down, he added quietly, "Because there's nothing he didn't know about me. I told him _everything_."

Madeline sighed, pursing her lips, "He's gone hiking. I don't know were. Find him if you must, but… Just please don't hurt my boy anymore."

"Cross my heart," Alfred whispered as he turned and left.


	16. Dreams Come True

**SandiaHero, CrimsonPruCan, IAmACat, otakuprincessluna, Guest, Cynmia, Guest and Guest (Oh man, is that going to get irritating…) thank you all very much for your reviews.**

**So, my art teacher, who has known me my entire life, who inspires and guides me, has just had a horrible accident. She's alive, but her life isn't going to be the same. She's in hospital right now, and I'm going to be helping her as much as I can until she can walk by herself again. This might mean an increase in the already sporadic nature of my updates.**

**And with the way this ends, too… **

~====o)0(o====~

"This," Alfred grumbled to himself as he trudged up a red clay hillside, "Is by _far_," he stopped to have a look around for signs of Matthew, "The _stupidest_ idea I have _ever_ had. _Ever_." standing akimbo, he peered about, and found the view to be nothing but trees. Stinking trees.

"_God, Matt, what _is_ it with you and nature?" Alfred whined as they set up the tent. They were seventeen and apparently Alfred's birthday present to Matthew to go camping together. Or that's what Matt had told Al. The American had grass in his socks and pine needles in his shirt, and he wasn't entirely sure how either of these things had gotten there because they'd barely been out in all this scheming wilderness for an hour and a half. _

"_Nature is beautiful, Al," Matthew said, taking a deep lungful of fresh air, his eyes alight as they swept across the lake vista before them, "Look at it. The colours, the- the everything. You're religious; doesn't it reaffirm your faith in the creator?"_

_Alfred looked at the lake, the mountains, the forest and the nigh-on deserted camp-ground._

"_Mmm_mm_.. Nah. I just don't see the same thing you do," The American said. The tent was put up and they were leaning on the bonnet of Al's car, "See the mountain? Where you see a miracle, I see a really big hill; perfect for falling down and breaking something. The lake? I don't know what that looks to you, but I see a big, wet health hazard. With _leaches_."_

_That got him a laugh, Matt tipped his head back, laughter echoing and bouncing around the sunset that wrapped its faded lilac sky around them. _

"_City boy," the Canadian accused breathlessly. His stomach ached pleasantly, muscles shaking with delight._

"_You know it, bro. I need infrastructure to survive, unlike you, who only needs your teeth and a lake-full of yucky things," gesticulating towards the city on the horizon, "I _need_ it. I can't believe that there's no signal out here."_

"_So what I see in nature, you see in a cityscape?" Matthew asked with a half grin on his lips and honey-gold sunlight dripping down his face, making him glow._

"That's_ what you got from my bitching? Okay, one of us has selective hearing. No. What you see in nature, I see in people. That's why I like cities; they have people. People are a pulse," Al explained, half exasperated, half teasing and having a tonne of fun. _

"_Trees have a pulse!" Matt said indignantly, punching his best friend lightly on the arm. _

"_Trees are sofas waiting to happen," the American corrected, dodging a slightly harder punch, "Are you going to duel me for the trees' honour?" _

"_You bet," the Canadian laughed, holding up his fists as though they were boxing. Alfred did the same, a wide grin on his face as he bounced from foot to foot. Putting down his dukes, Matt stuck his foot out and kicked his friend's legs out from under him. Al's back hit the dirt, knocking the wind from his lungs. _

"_You're a fucking cheat, Matthew Williams," he laughed breathlessly, holding out a hand to be helped up._

"_Your centre of gravity is too high, Al," Matt laughed right back, taking the American's hand and letting out a strangled yelp of surprise as he was tugged forward, overbalancing._

_They were pressed chest to chest, both of them breathing hard, blood pulsing just beneath the skin. _

"_This is completely your fault."_

"My_ fault? _You_ pulled _me_ down!"_

"_You floored me!"_

_Their faces were a few inches apart. Laughing and shaking his head indulgently, Matthew pushed himself back and got up, his entire body pulsing, throbbing, vibrating with adrenaline._

"_There's no arguing with you, is there?" he'd said playfully. It took a full half hour for the Canuck to calm down enough to realise that his palms were bloody, shredded by rocks in the dirt when he'd used them to break his fall. _

It didn't take a lot of doing to phone around national parks to find out which ones had tall, grumpy Canadians who had notified the rangers of his extended stay in the park. He'd hit the jackpot and that's why he was currently up to his eyeballs in nature, looking for Matthew.

But.

What would he say when he found him? Matt would doubtless be as social as a dragon with PMS, so he would have to talk like he was having a caffeine rush if he wanted to get everything out in time. What was everything again?

"So, I'd like to give 'us' a go," he tried aloud. The statement fell flat, greeted only by the rustle of leaves, and Alfred was pretty sure that the trees were giving him sceptical looks from behind their gnarled bark.

"Nope. What do you think?" he asked a spruce, wondering if he'd gone completely bat-shit crazy, "How does 'I've accidentally jerked off to you three times this week' sound? No? What about, 'I just realised that my syrupy therapist has been subtly hinting that I may have been looking for a girl version of you my whole life. That or a younger version of my mother.'" If there was one thing Alfred loved, it was an audience, and while the forest wasn't the most receptive group he's spoken in front of, they were captive, and that was all he really needed.

"What do you actually say in this kind of situation? I mean, 'Hey, Mattie. You know you wanted to date me? Let's do it. Because I love you, and I don't want to lose you and I'm fucking confused. I mean…' Do I even love him like that? I don't want to lead him on, if you understand that. He's my bro; I couldn't hurt him on purpose. He's been like a brother to me. That doesn't make this incestuous, does it? No, of course not. We're not really related. It wouldn't be that hard, I don't think. We've kissed before, and he's actually really good. And I suppose if I look at it objectively, then he's actually pretty damn hot, he keeps himself fit, his eyes are an interesting colour. So really, what's not to like? What's not to love? He's everything I've ever wanted in a girlfriend."

Alfred stopped walking and shook his head,

"If Mattie heard me say that, I'd be floored before I could realise what I'd done wrong," he laughed, starting back on his path. He had a ways to go before he reached the first rest stop for the hike, and hopefully he could catch Matthew before he got too deep into the reserve.

"He's really an amazing person. Selfless, devoted, kind, caring, soft hearted… Kicks my ass when I need it. And when I don't. He's so much stronger than people give him credit for. He knows me better than anyone else ever will. I know him. I know I do. Like this; his little habit of camping when he's stressed. I'm probably poking a rabid bear with a poker by doing this, but hopefully I won't get mauled.

"I can understand his resistance. It does kind of look like I'm pressuring myself into being with him, and I sort of am. I'm afraid. I am so scared," he told a birch tree, "Of fucking this up. Or ruining what we have forever. That would just be the worst thing ever, and I think it might be that fear that's keeping me from really, going for this. Or doing what I'm doing now." Looking around at the trees again, he shook his head, "The fuck have I actually been paying Dr Kirkland for? I can see what Mattie likes about you guys."

The path was narrowing now, getting steeper and more uphill as he went on,

"But what it would be really nice to know is if he'll be accepting of my advance- Whoa- _fuck_!" a misplaced foot folded under him, sending Alfred to his knees in the dirt.

"God, Matt," he asked the silent forest, his ankle twinging as he got up, "What _is_ it with you and nature?"

~====o)0(o====~

"No," Matthew said sharply, "No, no, _no_. What are you _doing_ here, Jones?"

Alfred grimaced, sitting on the raised porch of a cabin that acted as a half-way house for hikers. His ankle had doubled in size since his little fall and was incredibly painful. An unfortunate size effect of this was that instead of poking a bear with a poker, this meeting now equivocal to two idiots attempting to brain each other with sticks. Hopefully it wouldn't get that far. Not least because he wanted to win his best friend back, but also because someone appeared to have done a number on his face already. Alfred wanted nothing more than to hug Matthew close and make his hurt better. He looked so angry, and his face… when the American found out who had done that, he was going to beat them senseless. Just like old times. The need to protect his friend was there, just as strong as it always had been. This he could understand.

"You're not that stupid, Mattie."

"Stop _calling_ me that! Jesus Christ, Alfred! Are you incapable of leaving me alone, or are you just trying to make me suffer?" Matthew's response was immediate and as harsh as a slap across the face.

It took a lot to bite back the hurt that those words caused as he slowly got to his feet, leaning very heavily to his right, Alfred swayed, taking a tentative, limping step forward, "No. I won't stop calling you that. Because that's your name. You are Mattie Williams, you play semi-professional hockey and you run _our_ company. Every time someone breaks me, you put me back together again. I _need_ you."

"Well I don't need you-"

"Don't lie to me, Mattie!"

"I am _not_ lying!" Matthew howled in outrage, "I don't need you, Jones. I am a perfectly capable, independent person. I do my own taxes, I can run a fucking business by myself. I am self-sufficient, I don't _need_ anybody! But I _want_ you. I want you so bad that I can't sleep at night. And now that I'm trying to get over you, get over this addiction to you; _you can't leave me the fuck alone_. The only reason I can think of that you would do that is to hurt me."

"Matthew," The American said his full name firmly, commanding attention as he took another hop-skip step, "You _know_ me. What is the one thing I would never, _ever_ do?"

"I don't want to play twenty questions with you. Stop being a child!"

"Just answer the fucking question!" the demand was harsher than intended as pain clawed its way up from his ankle as he leant his weight on it.

"Fuck! Okay!" Matt scowled angrily, "You'd never do a body shot. It's unhygienic."

A sad smile graced Alfred's lips as he took another step closer, shaking his head, laughter bitter on his lips. They were barely a metre apart, "That's not it," the American said quietly, "And you damn well know it."

"Jones," Matthew's tone was cautionary, "What are you doing?"

"Who did that to your face, Mattie?" Alfred's fingers traced the contours of the bruise that spread itself over the Canadian's face like a macabre parody of the Phantom's mask.

"I got tag-teamed by a car and a tree. Take two steps backward and tell me what the fuck you think you're doing," Matthew's voice shook like a leaf in a gale. Al was too close, much, much too close, but still he wanted to lean into that touch.

"This is my fault," the American's blue eyes held untold sadness. Matt could feel his breath on his cheek and he needed to move. One of them needed to make some space between them before something regrettable happened.

"You didn't make me fall asleep at the wheel," why were they whispering? Why couldn't he move away as Alfred's warm hands came to rest on his shoulders? Why didn't he want to shy away? Why did he want the pain that the other was promising?

"But I pushed you away when I shouldn't have. I'm the reason you were on that road at all-"

"No, Alfred, please don't do this, please, _please_, no-"

"I would never, ever, _ever_, hurt someone I love," Matthew could feel the words in the warm breath that caressed his skin. He knew what was coming and he didn't even try to stop it. Not the way Alfred's lips parted slightly, not the way those blue eyes fluttered shut. Not the way his own eyelids joyously closed, relieved to at last be allowed to indulge in this. He didn't try to stop himself kissing Alfred back, and he didn't even bother to try and stop Alfred stealing the breath from his lungs when the American's lips drifted carefully along his bruised cheek and to his ear and softly whispered,

"_I love you, Mattie_."


	17. Happily Ever After

**To everyone who saw this coming; well screw you, too. Guest, SandiaHero, Guest, hetarynnies, themagnificent ME, IAmACat, Cynmia, mofalle, Ahr0, Hinata28, xXthenextbookwormXx, Guest, cuzimafreak, Guest, GreyMoth, Zenna95, my darling Germany, Zuma12121, tmmdeathwishraven, Guest, lumaluma and CapriciousUke, thanks everyone! My teacher is feeling much better now, but she can't walk for another month or so.**

**This is the last chapter! There's an epilogue because there are some things I need to tie up still, but this is it. Thank you all for sticking with me through this!**

_I finished crying in the instant that you left  
And I can't remember where or when or how  
And I banished every memory you and I had ever made  
But when you touch me like this  
When you hold me like that  
I just have to admit that it's all coming back to me._

Celine Dion – It's All Coming Back To Me Now

The mood was ruined somewhat when Matthew's fist collided with Alfred's jaw. Stepping back onto his sprained ankle, the American's leg buckled under him and with a whimper of surprise, confusion and pain, he landed ass-first in the dust. One hand was clasped to his throbbing jaw and the other to his swollen ankle.

"Mattie?" he asked, looking up at his friend sorrowfully, "What was that for?" the swing from pleasure was disorientating and reality seemed to be swinging like a pendulum before his eyes. Had he been so quickly forgotten? Alfred's chest ached at the very notion of never being able to be with Matthew, and he didn't envy the Canadian these past years.

"That was cruel, Jones," Matt's voice shook, "You're a cheat and a liar and I can love you through that. You can kiss me if you feel you should; you won't hear me complain. I," he drew a deep breath, hating to admit the levels to which he was prepared to stoop, "I will be your gay experiment if that's what it takes to be with you for even a little while. But for fuck's _sake_, don't be cruel enough to pretend that you have feelings for me."

Alfred's mouth narrowed into a line of pain and discontent,

"When we kissed, I saw fireworks like the fourth of July. That didn't feel like a lie to me."

"No," Matthew's hair whipped his bruised cheeks as he shook his head, "No, I don't believe you."

"I felt whole."

"Alfred, stop playing with me!" the Canadian begged desperately

"No! Don't you see, Mattie?" Matt's favourite, wide blue eyes looked pleadingly up at him, begging with him to believe, "I _want_ this. I want _you_. I want us to be bros again. I- I want to hold your hand. I want to hold you and keep you safe and kiss you again. I broke your heart, Mattie, please let me fix it?"

"My heart is not a computer," he protested, hands re-balling themselves into fists.

"I'm good at fixing things," the American offered up, "I want to be with you for always, Matthew Williams, and if I don't love you now then I'm going to damn well learn to. Why don't you want to believe me?"

The Canadian's eyes burnt with pent up tears. He'd sworn not to shed them and he wasn't going to break that promise now, not in front of Alfred, "Because," he sounded like a child with a wobbling lip and he did his best fight back the humiliating tone. Clearing his throat, he tried again, "Because I know you're going to hurt me again. You may not want to," he added hurriedly, seeing Al open his mouth to object, "Or even know that you're doing it, but you will. Maybe someone else will catch your eye, or maybe you can't make yourself love me. And they say it's better to have loved and lost then never to have loved at all, but that is bullshit. I would rather long for a feeling I've never had then one I'll never get back. But maybe it isn't bull, and if – I just. You know, last I checked, I still didn't have breasts, so I don't even know why you're doing this," he had to derail that train of thought before he broke his vow.

"Oh no," Alfred grunted, scrambling to push himself to his feet, staggering more than a little once he achieved his goal, "No you don't, Mattie. You are the longest relationship I have ever had. Why do you think my other ones don't work? Because I don't love them. I love you. I'm just slow on the uptake, you know how I am. I don't care if you don't have boobs, Matt. I care about the way your lips fit with mine, and that you can cheer me up just by smiling, and that my days seem brighter just because you're in them. I care that I can't do anything without you; I don't want to do anything unless I'm sharing it with you. Even if what we're sharing is a mean right hook," the American gingerly rubbed the fast-bruising skin of his jaw.

"I'm not sorry about that. You can't just kiss people without their permission. In fact, I recall expressly telling you _not_ to kiss me," Matthew's black eye only served to make his scowl all the more impressive.

"And I'm not sorry either. I got an amazing kiss from the man I love for this knock, and you know what, he kissed me back," Al folded his arms across his chest, leaning heavily on his good leg, a smug grin painted all over his face.

"Of course I did. I'm weak," the Canadian's answering smile was melancholic.

"No you're-"

"I'm weak, Alfred. If I were strong I would have given you up years ago. I would have accepted that you're never going to love me and moved on with my life instead of hanging off you, pining helplessly," self-disgust coated every word like pond scum.

Taking another few hop-skip steps forward, Alfred moved until he was close enough to pull an unresisting Matthew into his arms. There was so very little that was different about this from their past hugs. Maybe Matt was a little more reluctant, and maybe Al's hands sat a on his hips rather than his back. The American's one hand stroked his best friend's hair calmingly until the Canadian pressed his face carefully against his shoulder and melted into the embrace, giving up.

"It's okay, Mattie. You don't have to be strong all the time. I'll be strong for you, and you can be my gay experiment if that's what you want to call yourself. But when, ten years from now, I'm still there to kiss you awake in the morning, will you finally admit that I love you?"

"No."

"Why not?" Alfred asked his shoulder.

"Because you have not once in twenty-five years woken up before me."


	18. Too Tired To Think Of A Title

**SandiaHero, tmmdeathwishraven, Guest, CrimsonPruCan, Guest, Guest, Arh0, Anon007, Guest, my lovely girlfriend, cuzimafreak, Cynmia, SmarmyMarmalade and Zenna95. **

**AMSDHKSDH this is M rated. Skip the first 800 words if that's not what you came here to see. Well, guys, this fic has put me through the wringer, and shit has gone down, and I have other things that need writing, and I'm a very cold, very sleepy writer, but thank you all for reading anyway. I know this isn't what some of you would have hoped, and it's not really what I had in mind, either, but I can't please everyone, only hope that I can do better next time. See you around, gang! **

"We've been together for a year now," Alfred announced, twelve months and two weeks into their relationship, which Matthew was thankful for every day. He hadn't believed that it was possible, and here they were, together, just spending time together and if he wanted to, Matthew could just lean up from here his head was resting in the American's lap, tug on his collar and they could kiss. As simple as that.

"Aren't you clever?" the Canadian smiled fondly, his fingers tracing the underside of Alfred's jaw.

"Do you not want to have sex with anyone at all, or are you still afraid I'm going to leave you?"

Matthew sat bolt upright, twisting around to face his best boyfriend properly, "_What?_"

"I'm serious. Are you trying some sort of celibacy thing – because some advance warning would have been nice, or is there some other reason that you don't want to have sex with me specifically?" The American's blue eyes were unusually serious and it made Matt's heart thud erratically in his chest.

"I didn't think you wanted to have sex with me," his voice was very small, and he couldn't look at the other.

"Wrong answer, try again," Alfred said cheerfully, "I've been making passes at you all year and whenever I do you start talking about the weather. I'm not stupid. We're not teenagers, it's okay to be intimate with your partner."

"You won't like my answer," Matt's answer was flat and devoid of emotion.

"You don't think," The American formed his words slowly, weighing them on his tongue, "That I'm just trying to get into your pants, do you? Because if you do, I am going to be _so_ pissed off at you."

"What? No! I know you wouldn't! I just," Matthew's eyes turned to his bookshelf, studying the worn spines as though he was going to write a test on them later, "I had a pretty… unpleasant dream once. I … I forced myself onto you. I don't want to do that. I don't want-"

"You," Alfred laughed, tugging his boyfriend into his lap and cuddling him close, kissing his neck, "Are fucking insane, you know that? I know you could never hurt me. I won't deny that the idea of ass-sex scares me a little, but I trust you."

"Tomorrow, we can have sex tomorrow," Matthew said, his voice shaking.

"Why not today?" the American asked reasonably.

"Darling," the Canadian drawled, "Go with me on this one. Having sex with a man takes a lot more prep."

o-O-o

"Mattie?" Alfred heard the shower stop and stuck his head around the bedroom door and stopped dead. Matthew was standing completely naked at the end of the bed, his back to the door as he pulled his damp hair back into a ponytail.

The American's mouth went very dry and he gravitated to the man in the centre of the room like an ocean to the moon. His hands found themselves on the Canadian's hips, fingers pressing into his skin, drawing little circles in the heat-flushed skin, still warm from his shower.

A faint smile on his lips, Matthew turned, facing Alfred, his hands moving over the cotton that covered his chest, "Ready for your first gay experience?"

"I love you," their heartbeats thudded loudly in their veins.

"Alright," the Canadian's voice was hoarse, "First step; get naked. I win."

Alfred's shirt was over his head and his pants on the floor faster than Matt could believe, his boxers soon joining them.

"Piece of cake," The American smiled lazily, "Now what's a guy got to do to get his boyfriend hard?"

"A good-looking guy like you?" the strawberry-blond murmured into his neck, lips and cautious teeth moving reverentially across his skin, "Not much."

"A good-looking guy like me, huh? Well, I'm not going to argue with you there," the smile on Alfred's lips was wide and sensuous, "Go on," he whispered, "Mark me, Mattie. I'm yours, and I know you want to."

"And how do you know that?" was the whispered reply, the Canadian's open lips barely touching the American's skin as he followed the path of tension in his neck.

"I've yet to see the boyfriend of yours who doesn't walk away covered in love bi-_ah_!" the American's tanned hands dropped to Matt's ass, pulling them flush, their rapidly hardening cocks celebrating the contact. Gold-skinned fingers formed blunt claws to drag down a pale back. Alfred drew deep, steady breathes, tilting his head back in submission as the Canuck's teeth raked over the skin of his neck, an open mouthed kiss leaving its warm apology.

"There, now they know you're mine," Matthew's lips were damp as they spoke against Alfred's and once more the All-American groaned his approval.

"Not that they didn't know before now," Al smiled, nuzzling into the Canadian's cheek.

Gentle hands pushed Alfred back until he hit the bed, sitting down. Keeping their eyes, Matthew sank down onto his knees, sliding his pale hands along firm, golden thighs and spreading them.

"Oh, God, Mattie, what are-? You don't need to-" his words were cut off by a throaty moan as the Canuck's lips closed around the head of his cock, sucking gently. Slowly, ever so slowly, Alfred watched that red-blond mop descend into his lap, the sensations it brought with it scrambling his thoughts. Tan hands fisted in the bed sheets, and a golden blond head flopped back, a guttural growl of pleasure escaping bitten lips. And then it was gone.

Alfred looked down in dazed confusion, blue eyes meeting midnight purple.

"Why?" he croaked.

"I can't ride a soft cock," was the quiet reply, and it made tingling heat break out across the American's body.

"I thought you were going to-?" he tried to explain what he had assumed while Matthew pushed him back, straddling his lips, squeezing lube onto his hand from a tube he had rescued from the nightstand.

"I figured this might be easier; you're used to women," the Canadian breathed, slicked fingers tracing his own entrance, pressing in, curling and seeking. He gave a gasp, rocking back into the digits, "Oh, God, Al!"

More lube was applied to Alfred's straining member, and with trembling thighs, Matthew sank down onto him.

"Mattie!" a pleasured flush stained Alfred's skin, his breathing ragged. Matt's hands found themselves on that tan chest as he rose and fell,

"Easy, Al," he panted, rolling his hips as the other nodded, rocking their bodies together, "Yeah, like that. Oh _fuck_-"

~====o)0(o====~

"I was not this gay before we started seeing each other," Matthew groused, tucking scarlet napkins into napkin rings and setting them on the table in a last-minute flurry of activity before their guests arrived, "I mean, really, a dinner party? How old are we?"

"Oh, shut up, Matt, it's Thanksgiving, be thankful," Alfred yelled cheerily, pulling a pumpkin pie from the oven and slicking the switch on the electric beaters so that there would be cream to go with it.

"That it only happens once a year," the Canadian muttered, whipping off his apron as the doorbell rang.

"Amelia, Franklin! Francis, Arthur! Thank you so much for coming, we're so glad you're here. Alfred, leave the bird alone and come say hello to your mother!" Matthew's smile was at full wattage as he beckoned his boyfriend, "Al, I don't think you've met Francis' partner; Arthur Kirkland."

Alfred and Arthur stared at each other for a long moment before shaking hands and exchanging awkward introductions. Once Matthew had steered the other three toward the dinner table, the American spoke up,

"You, doc, are a _bad_ therapist," he said, a slightly awed tone to his voice.

"What are you going to do about it?" Arthur asked resignedly. He could lose his licence over this.

"Say thank you."

~====o)0(o====~

Matthew awoke to the gentle sound of someone putting something down very carefully on his bedside table and the smell of scrambled eggs and toast.

"Frankie?" he asked, his voice croaky with sleep, "Hey, buddy. What're you doing?"

Blinking owlishly, the Canadian looked up at the boy who sort of had his hair and sort of had Alfred's eyes, though he was the product of neither. A small, shy smile lit his young face,

"Morning, Papa. I just came to wish you and Daddy happy anniversary before Auntie Katy come to pick me up. I made you breakfast." True to his word, Franklin Williams-Jones had made a meal fit for an eight-year-old. There was coffee and eggs and Lucky Charms, and a card that had a drawing of two stick-ish figures in a red felt-tip heart.

"You are amazing, thank you so much," Matthew's hand snaked out of the covers to ruffle his son's hair, "But I think your Daddy is still asleep."

"Can you wake him up?" the boy asked hopefully, "I want him to see the card."

"Okay, hang on," the Canadian grinned, pecking Frankie's forehead before diving over at Alfred, kissing him full on the lips, "Hmmm, wake up, sleeping beauty."

"Papa.." their son protested as Alfred began to stir under the barrage of lips.

"And to what do I owe this pleasure?" the American chuckled sleepily, a lazy grin stretching his lips.

"This little monster," Matthew picked up a squealing Frankie, depositing him between them, "Has something he wants to show us."

Snatching up his card, the boy opened it, showing a child's drawing of the three of them, and a child's clumsy handwriting that bore the message:

Happi 10 year Annyversery Daddy and Papa.

"Aren't you clever?" Alfred crowed, "You drew this yourself?"

"Uh-huh," Frankie nodded enthusiastically, "And I made breakfast!" the American first kissed his son's hair and then his lover's lips.

"My big strong men," he said fondly, "Where would I be without you?"

"Still asleep with no breakfast," Matthew grinned, "Buddy, are you all ready to visit Auntie Katy and Uncle Nic?" the boy nodded happily, one of Matthew's toast fingers in his mouth.

o-0-o

"I love you," Matthew sighed contentedly as they lay in each other's arms, glow fading. Alfred pressed a kiss to his temple and the laugh lines that were showing at the corners of his eyes,

"I love you, too."

"Mmmn, I'm not so sure about that," there was a cheeky grin all over the Canadian's face, "You still haven't woken up before me."


End file.
